


Folsom Prison Blues

by asstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prison, F/M, M/M, Male Slash, Prison Sex, Slash, Supernatural AU - Freeform, blink and you'll miss it dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asstiel/pseuds/asstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is convicted for murder in the first degree and incarcerated at Folsom Prison. Serving a life sentence, Dean meets Castiel his new cellmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just to Watch Him Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So when he darted out on Route 84 after following a particularly tasty looking squirrel, it wasn't too surprising when he got hit by a Prius. If Dean had to think about it, the most embarrassing part of his capture would probably be that a car that had to be plugged into the wall had taken him down.

It would be just Dean Winchester's luck that his life's legacy would be that he would be forever known as the 'Johnny Cash Killer'. Not because he murdered the country music icon, or even because he resembled the man. It was because when the media asked him why he had committed the heinous act of murder in the first degree without so much as a trace of denial or remorse he had answered 'just to watch him die'. Those stupid words would haunt Dean for the rest of his miserable life. It didn't help that the murder took place just inside of Reno's city limits, and then a cruel twist of fate had him sentenced to live out his life in Folsom Prison. It was fucking poetic really.

Of course, that wasn't the real reason why he had shot that son of a bitch down in the desert. But when the feds had finally caught up with him, he was tired, dehydrated and maybe going a little crazy after being on the run for close to a year. The man who Dean had gunned down was Reno's resident psychopath who preferred to go by his ridiculous made-up fairy-tale name Azazel. Anybody else who had been unfortunate enough to meet him face to face called him Yellow Eyes. When Dean was just out of pull ups Azazel had been experimenting with arson. Old Yellow Eyes had been courting John, Dean's dad, because he was interested in having a former Marine in his ranks. John, to his credit had refused, unleashing the wrath of Azazel on him and his family. A few weeks later, Dean had woken up to smoke and barely got out of the house with his brother alive. His mother hadn't been as lucky.

From that point on, the Winchesters were a united force dedicated to freeing the world from Yellow Eyes. Staying in one place was no longer safe and they were forced to jump from motel to flea-ridden motel. Considering the circumstances, it was a miracle that Dean and Sam had been able to graduate high school. Sam had even gone off to college to pursue a law degree. He had said that he wanted to bring Azazel to justice in a legal manner. Dean thought that Sam just wanted to escape their twisted, fucked up family, and he couldn't exactly blame him. After Sammy left, the hunt for Azazel had gone into overdrive. As his notoriety grew through the state, it was harder to keep tabs on him. More than once it seemed like he turned into smoke and disappeared into thin air.

But then, two years ago, they had cornered him in a warehouse outside of Tulsa. They had killed his driver and his bodyguards, and mistakenly thought he was alone. It wasn't until two shots had rung out and both Winchesters hit the ground did they realize they were wrong. Azazel's first mistake had been to cross Dean Winchester for the second time; his second was leaving him for dead. Because if Dean was one thing, he was a stubborn mother-fucker and he wasn't going to let a bullet to the chest prevent him from revenge. John died at the hospital only an hour after the shooting, drugged out of his mind and raving about how Azazel was really a demon wearing a human so he could walk the earth. It wasn't pretty.

It wasn't long until he was out of that hospital like a bat out of hell, cruising up and down the country for the man who had murdered both of his parents and nearly killed Dean. Either Azazel had been getting sloppy or he wanted Dean to find him, because it had taken less than a month for Dean to track him down. Apparently he was running some sort of job in Reno, a very Ocean's Eleven type of gig. Except with considerably more bodies ending up in the desert. One thing led to another, and it ended with Azazel eating hot lead outside of a 7-11. Unfortunately for Dean, there had been one unusually alert homeless gentleman who had seen the whole thing. Otherwise, there was a chance he could have gotten away with it. But the police quickly put the dots together and figured out that the gunman was none other than Dean Winchester, the boy who had been wronged by Azazel twice over. Figuring out who had done it was one thing, catching him was another. Dean was no virgin when it came to living off the grid, and he had managed to disappear entirely for about ten months. Then shit hit the fan.

In a moment of weakness he went to gas station to pick up some Hostess cupcakes before scouting out the security camera situation. The clerk didn't recognize Dean until after he was out of the store, but the damage was done. The feds got a fresh lead on the Winchester case, and were cornering him like a dog. He couldn't take two steps without creating a trail for the FBI to follow, so he had to stay in the area. It turned out that those cupcakes would be the last thing Dean Winchester would buy as a free man for a very long time. After that, he was forced to live off the land, which in the high desert of Utah wasn't a hell of a lot. But he was able to keep it together for close to a month and a half. He lost more weight than he should have and resembled an old leather bag at some times, but he was alive and out of the clutches of the law.

The last couple of weeks of Dean's freedom weren't exactly ideal. Most of the time he was barely staving off hunger and the hallucinations of Yellow Eyes were becoming all too frequent. So when he darted out on Route 84 after following a particularly tasty looking squirrel, it wasn't too surprising when he got hit by a Prius. If Dean had to think about it, the most embarrassing part of his capture would probably be that a car that had to be plugged into the wall had taken him down. It was shameful. He was quickly taken to the hospital by the nice Mormon grandmother who had hit him and the ER doctors recognized him almost immediately. They bandaged him up as much as the cops would allow, and then he was released to be taken into custody. Outside of the hospital was a media shitstorm. Word had gotten out that the man who had been on the run for close to a year for the murder of one of the most notorious criminals in the United States was in a hospital outside of Salt Lake City. And Dean was a reporter's wet dream. He was handsome, charming, and best of all he had spent his entire life hell-bent on revenge. He would later be accredited with single-handedly keeping the newspaper industry on the western seaboard afloat for entire year.

And outside of that county hospital in Utah, he looked the part of the life-hardened murderer. The hospital had allowed him to shave his scraggly beard, a fact he was eternally grateful for, but his hair was dry and bleached blond from spending so much time out in the sun and his face heavily freckled and peeling in some parts from a particularly bad sunburn. His clothes hung a little too loose, even after the hospital had given him an IV which had done wonders for his sanity. But his eyes, his eyes were the part of his appearance that the over eager interns at every newspaper office in the country would write sagas about. They made men and women alike around the country suddenly fancy a trip to the southwest and maybe start sending letters to the prison to get to know this man a little better.

"Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester! Is it true that you shot William 'Azazel' Banks in Reno last year?" An attractive female news anchor asked Dean, thrusting a microphone right under his nose.

"Yep. Shot that bastard right between the eyes. And in a few other places." He answered easily, grinning as if he wasn't surrounded by FBI agents with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Why? Why did you shoot Azazel, Mr. Winchester?"

"Why?" Dean asked like it was the first time he had thought about it. "I shot him just to watch him die."

And of course, the rest was history. If Dean Winchester hadn't been a household name before that comment, he was after. The story absolutely blew up, and his constant one liners and absolute absence of guilt gave the news outlets reports for days about the enigmatic murderer. At the beginning of his trial, the reporters had tried to get the other side of the story out of Sam but were denied at every turn. Dean promised them unlimited interviews until the day he was convicted, but they were to leave Sam out of it. That was the one constant. Time and time again they were told that Sam Winchester had absolutely nothing to do with it. There was no reason for Dean's actions to affect Sam's life.

The trial, as expected, was a zoo. Most of the news outlets didn't even pretend like there was going to be another outcome to the situation. Dean had admitted upfront to the crime time and time again, despite the words from his lawyers. There wasn't any question to if Dean was going to be charged with murder, it was just a question of where he would serve his time and if he would end up on death row. Or even if the judge and jury would consider Dean's deed a gift to the nation and shave a couple of decades off his sentence.

Dean ended up being found guilty of murder in the first degree and was to spend a life sentence in prison without a chance of parole. The judge sentenced him to be incarcerated at the first maximum security jail with an opening. This, of course with Dean's luck was the infamous Folsom Prison in California. And thus, the name Dean Winchester would always be synonymous with an old country song. Surprisingly, this did not give Dean a whole lot of intimidation points when he first hit the cell block. More than anything he had come across as a pretty boy wannabe gangster who had stumbled his way into one of the hardest prisons in the country. They put him in a single cell for the first couple of weeks for this very reason. The guards were not shy to tell him that his fellow prisoners were taking bets on who'd be the first one to 'tear that ass apart'. But after a couple of incidents in the shower, it was clear that keeping Dean separated was not so much for his safety but for the safety of everyone around him. It also became apparent pretty quick that he was a wily son of a bitch who had a knack for making weapons and using them effectively.

The gangs, the showers, the asshole prison guards, all of this Dean could handle. He was used to fighting and surviving, prison wasn't too different than his life on the outside, just more contained. The limits of what Dean could feasibly handle became pretty fucking clear the day he was told he was being transferred to a double cell. For the first time he was going to have to share a twelve by fourteen room with another man and pray to God that his roommate wasn't in for rape. Dean could protect himself, but he didn't really want to be on high alert 24/7.

So when the door to his new cell slid open, Dean assessed the situation quickly and came up with nothing. His cellmate didn't even bother to look up from his book to see what the deal was. And then the guards left and Dean was left alone with his new bunk buddy. If there was one thing Dean knew about asserting dominance, it was that he couldn't be the first one to initiate contact. He could make eye contact, but no verbal communication.

This frame of mind lasted for exactly two hours and seven minutes. Two hours and seven minutes of excruciating silence in which the man next to him barely moved a muscle. Roughly thirty-four minutes in the man shifted slightly and scratched his left temple. And then returned to nearly statue-like stillness. It was driving Dean up on the wall. Four minutes into the second hour he decided he preferred outright violence and aggression to this. It took another three minutes for him to act on it.

Lying on his back, Dean willed himself to turn towards the other man. The guards had given him literally no information about the man. He could be five feet away from a serial killer for all that he knew.

"I'm Dean."

"I'm aware." The man painstakingly marked his page and placed the book on the ground. Sitting up on the bed, he looked at Dean for the first time. "You were very popular here a while ago."

The first thing that Dean noticed was that he didn't seem like a criminal. More like a grad student or a professor on sabbatical. Definitely not a murderer or con artist. It was all in the eyes; mostly everybody in the prison had cold dark eyes. Constantly calculating and planning. But the man's weren't. It was jarring, like being back on the outside. The second thing he noticed was that the man was very handsome. Almost pretty. Which was something Dean would never cop to in a million years. Dean should have realized right after look at him that he was completely and utterly screwed. But Dean was very good at being emotionally stunted and stubbornness, so he ignored the unwelcome flutter in his gut and plowed through.

"Oh." He grinned. "Guess I'm a celebrity."

The man's lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. "One could say that."

"What do they call you, then?"

"Castiel."

"Castiel?"

"Castiel."

"Huh."

He sighed. "Go on, say it."

Dean feigned ignorance. "Say what?"

"You know perfectly what. I'm aware that it's an unusual name. Many have not heard of it."

"No shit. You mean every Tom, Dick and Sally don't name their kids Castiel? Could've fooled me."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Alright then, I guess I was mistaken."

"Guess you were." Dean grinned triumphantly at the ceiling. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad. "So what you in for? I'm assuming you already got the 411 on my deal."

His face darkened. "I'm innocent."

Now it was time for Dean to roll his eyes. "Yeah, okay Cas. I forgot how everyone in here is innocent. That's why we're here. We're the ones being protected from the general population."

"I'm serious."

Dean turned his head to the side and found himself on the receiving end of a death glare. "Alright. You're innocent. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No."

"Of course you don't."


	2. Can Hear the Train a Comin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time and time again Castiel had stared pure evil in the face and decided it was probably fine if he was celibate for just a little longer. Which is why he figured he was utterly and completely screwed when he first saw Dean Winchester.

Night had fallen on Folsom, and lights out was nearly an hour ago leaving the cellblock in an inky blackness save the security lights which flickered sporadically. Most of the inmates had fallen asleep, but a few still remained awake, talking in careful whispers as to not arouse the suspicion of the guards. A few muffled cries could be heard, yells cut short by a hand or a stained pillow. Castiel tried hard not to think whether the screams were those of ecstasy or pain.

He had been in the prison for a while, nearly four years, long enough to understood how things worked. New men would come in every couple of months, eager to prove that they weren't soft from the outside world and could roll with the baddest gangs in the clink. Nearly all of them broke within a couple of weeks. For some it was the physical strains, the beatings or the sexual assault. For others it was the confinement, they only left their cell for meals and rec time. Castiel had heard that in the minimum security prisons they were allowed to spend time in the libraries and even earn degrees. But apparently Folsom didn't want society's dregs conversing with each other.

Castiel didn't pay much attention to the newcomers. They were loud, brash and green. They weren't dangerous because they always let you know where you stood with them. You were either being beaten or sharing cigarettes, there weren't many shades of grey. But the lifers, those were the ones Castiel was weary of. Some of them had been in Folsom longer than Castiel had been alive, and they were smart. Power within the ranks of the lifers was always shifting slightly, and it was important to know who held the power at the moment. Most of them were old, greying hairs and stooping backs. This rarely meant that they had softened with age. Instead they recruited the younger generations to do their dirty work.

There were only a few who Castiel conversed with on a regular basis. Jacob convicted for voluntary manslaughter, an older man who had found God while he was behind bars. Gabriel, a cocksure con artist who had swindled half of New York out of their trust funds a few years back, the newspapers had dubbed him the 'Trickster'. And finally Crowley, who was the man you went to if you needed anything. Castiel had seen him procure aged whiskey for his finest customers. It had probably cost them three months' worth of cigarettes, but it also probably didn't eat through their stomach lining like the pruno he had seen Gabriel drink. When Castiel had brought it up, Gabriel had shrugged and said he was going to die in prison anyways; he might as well get drunk in the meantime. Castiel had found it difficult to argue with that. Unlike Castiel, Gabriel had no chance of parole; his only chance for a change of scenery was if he was emitted into the hospital annex.

The first year had been the hardest for Castiel. He was wide-eyed and scared out of his mind, and the lifers had eaten that right up. It only took a couple of incidents in the shower for Castiel to develop a powerful right hook and a month in solitary to prove that he was not to be messed with. For most of the other inmates, it was his stoicism that turned them off. His unrelenting stare made some of them think that maybe Castiel should have pleaded insanity to take a couple of years of his sentence. Hardly anyone knew why Castiel had been sent to Folsom, not even Gabriel or Jacob. Castiel just assumed Crowley knew because it would be naïve to assume that Crowley hadn't assembled a mental dossier on every inmate he decided was interesting. And for some reason Crowley had decided that Castiel was very interesting. Mostly, Castiel thought that Crowley just enjoyed the company of somebody who wasn't interested in drinking alcohol they had made in a toilet bowl. For all that Castiel thought Crowley knew about him, Castiel knew hardly anything about the other man. He sounded English, but Castiel's ear wasn't fine-tuned enough to determine where on the isles he was from. Then of course, Castiel reminded himself, it could just be affected to give him an extra layer of mystery. The rumor was that Crowley was arrested for murdering his own son, a crime that made even the most hardened criminals in the cage sit uncomfortably. Crowley neither confirmed nor denied this. Castiel thought that it must have given Crowley some perverse pleasure to hold the information over everyone. But then again, without Crowley's connections and knowledge he would have been an easy target for the other inmates. He was shorter and plumper than most of the other men and at times gave out a very homosexual air which did not sit well with many of the prisoners.

The great irony of course, was that Castiel, the one that they had pegged as asexual, was really the one who was the most likely to enjoy a dick in his ass. Not that Castiel made any efforts to advertise this fact. He was no fool, he knew any carefully maintained respect the lifers had for him would crumble in an instant and he would be back to being the fresh face on the cellblock. He doubted he'd even last a week after word got out. So he went with the flow, and when the men made any talk of sex he would keep his face schooled in careful indifference. It was far safer that way.

And for the most part, Castiel was hardly tempted to start any sort of relationship with the other prisoners. It didn't hurt that his last cellmate had been a seventy year old lifer who was in for acting on his white supremacist beliefs. Time and time again Castiel had stared pure evil in the face and decided it was probably fine if he was celibate for just a little longer. Which is why he figured he was utterly and completely screwed when he first saw Dean Winchester.

The prisoners had followed his case pretty closely. Azazel was no stranger to a handful of them, and even more of them had heard the stories of the infamous gangster. It was an interesting case. Winchester had no gang or mob affiliations that anybody knew about, and as far as the prisoners could tell he did it for revenge. The news channels had reported that Winchester blamed Azazel for his parents' deaths. Folsom went crazy when word got out that the Johnny Cash Killer would be joining their ranks soon enough. The lifers fancied adding an infamous criminal to their list of underlings and the first timers knew that if they were the first ones to best Winchester they would shoot up the chain of command. Unfortunately for Folsom, the Dean Winchester on TV was a different breed than the Dean Winchester in Folsom. Sure, they shared the same easy smile and quick wit, but there was an edge that hadn't made its way through the television screen. An edge gained only by killing without an ounce of regret or shame.

The first time Castiel had seen Dean was when he was being led to his single cell. After that, he had only caught glimpses from behind his bars as Dean was brought to the mess hall or the showers. There had been a familiar lurch of attraction in his stomach which he quickly stifled. It was idiotic to pine after a murderer. Even one who murdered with relatively noble intentions. It wasn't until Castiel's old cellmate, Gary, had been released so he could get hospital care for his failing liver did Castiel really start to worry about where Dean would end up. Space was limited in Folsom, like all jails in the state, and it had been a miracle that Dean was granted a single cell in the first place. In his four years at Folsom, Castiel had secured a reputation as a model inmate. In Dean's two weeks, he had proven to be a trouble maker. Castiel had desperately hoped he was wrong, but he had a feeling the warden was going to match Dean with a well behaved prisoner in hopes that he would rub off on him. Any glimmer of hope was squashed when Castiel heard Dean joking with an unresponsive guard outside of his cell.

For the first couple of hours, Castiel had stubbornly tried to ignore Dean's presence unsuccessfully. He had thrown all of his attention at his book, but when he later tried to recall what he had read, his mind came up blank. Castiel had always been curious, and having something of a celebrity within spitting distance was tempting. He wanted to ask Dean about everything he hadn't been able to say during the interviews. But of course, he didn't and instead pretended to read his book. It was an old tattered paperback, the spine nearly broken from constant abuse from its readers. Castiel wasn't particularly interested in the story, it was a poorly written murder mystery set in Venice, but it provided a distraction from his absurdly bleak life in the prison cell for twenty hours a day. Crowley had told him that an electronic book had been invented on the outside; he said you could download thousands of books on something the size of Castiel's hand. Castiel had become enthralled with the idea, and even went as far as to suggest it to the librarians. They had only given him a sad smile and said softly that it was unlikely that the government of California was going to set aside that kind of money for expensive electronics that would probably end up destroyed.

After their first brief chat, Castiel had calmed down considerably. He was even able to concentrate on his book. Dean was a murderer, but it didn't seem as though he was dangerous, at least not towards Castiel. It wasn't until after lights out did they speak again. The 11:10 freight train rumbled by, letting out three low whistles.

"It's pretty fucking cruel, don't you think?"

Castiel waited a few beats. He knew he shouldn't respond it would just make it more difficult to form a safe opinion on his cellmate. But before he realized it, his mouth had spoken without his brain's permission. "What is, Dean?"

"The train." Dean shifted underneath his sheets to lie on his back. "We're stuck here like rats, and they have a fucking train go by each night."

Castiel chuckled softly. "I suppose it is. But maybe we deserve it. We are here to repent for our sins after all." He mused.

"I thought you were innocent."

"The California State Penitentiary System doesn't agree with me."

"Shame."

"Isn't it though?"

Castiel swore he could hear Dean grin in the dark.

"How long you been in here?"

"Four years come October."

"When are you done?"

"Without parole?" Castiel thought for a minute and then sighed. "When I'm 32. So five years."

Dean whistled. "I do not envy you, dude. World's gonna be a different place when you get out. At least my world is gonna stay the same for the rest of my life."

"It doesn't matter." Castiel shrugged. "I doubt I'll be seeing much of anybody when I'm released."

"Really? What are you gonna do?"

"Buy a house in the country." Castiel closed his eyes and imagined his future house. It would be small, a one bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere. He would fix it up and maybe start a vegetable garden. He could sell corn in the summer, pumpkins in the fall and berries in the spring. It would be quiet and perfect.

"Sounds nice."

Castiel hummed in agreement, sleep slowly claiming him.

"Good night, Dean."

"G'night, Cas."


	3. I Got Stripes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, Dean. I think you are one of the more honorable men in here. A righteous man." Castiel smiled. "The eradication of evil is not a crime."
> 
> Dean visibly relaxed, his features softening. "Tell that to the US government."
> 
> "I try, but they keep ignoring my letters."

The day after Dean was transferred into his new cell with Castiel was Saturday, which meant the prison doors were open to friends and family who wished to visit their incarcerated loved ones. More importantly, it meant that Dean would be able to see Sam for the first time in nearly a month. Sam had been caught in the process of moving and hadn't been able to make it up to Folsom for a visit. Since Dean had been sent to the slammer, Sam had immediately packed everything up and started apartment hunting in Sacramento. Nothing much had been waiting for him in San Diego anyways, for the next six months Sam would be studying for the California bar exam while picking up odd jobs to pay the rent. They had been able to talk over the phone briefly, but Dean missed seeing his goofily tall, floppy haired brother's face. Call him sentimental, but a phone call could never compare to seeing Sam's bitch-face in person.

The only problem was that visiting hours began at ten, which gave Dean a solid three hours to think of nothing else besides his brother's arrival. He had already run through an impressive set of calisthenics before he realized he was working up too much of a sweat. Not wanting to sweat through his last clean jumpsuit, Dean attempted to read one of the paperbacks he had picked up from the travelling library the day before. He got three pages in before throwing the book away out of pure boredom. For whatever reason Folsom had recently stocked up on the cheap paperbacks that could only be found in the grocery store check-out line. He would kill for a book that had been actually reviewed by the New York Times. Dean was no snob, but there were only so many books about renegade cops who refused to give up the case before he could read before he wanted to claw out his own eyes. Not to mention about half the time he ended up rooting for the villains in the story because it made the plot more interesting. Just one time he'd like to read a story about how the cops never found who did it, and the criminal spent the rest of his days on the white sand beaches of Bora Bora. That would be a good story.

So, with no other viable forms of entertainment for the time being, Dean contented himself with being a ball of nervous energy until the guards called his name and unlocked the door. He paced back and forth in front of the iron bars, every so often peering around the corner half expecting to see the guards there each time. It wasn't until he started tapping on the bars did Castiel speak.

"Dean, sit down."

"What? Why?"

"You're driving me crazy." Castiel sighed laboriously and set his novel next to him. "You're climbing the walls and as a result I can't concentrate on my book."

"Sorry, man." Dean ran a hand through his closely cropped hair and perched on the edge of his mattress. "I'm seeing my brother today."

"Really?" Castiel asked, interested. "What's his name?"

"Sammy." Dean grinned. "Well, technically it's Sam. But he'll always be Sammy to me. Even if he is a big fancy lawyer."

"Your brother is a lawyer? He must be very intelligent."

"No, yeah, not really." Dean sighed and took a deep breath. "What I mean is, he's not a lawyer yet. He finished up with law school a coupla months ago and he's studying for the bar right now. But I know he's gonna pass it. Kid's a genius. He got a scholarship to Stanford for fuck's sake."

"Wow. That's really impressive."

"I know, right?" Dean grinned. "I remember one summer, I think he was six, he got really into the Latin names of plants. I don't even know how he got it, but he got his hands on this giant encyclopedia and would chant the names of the plants all day. I mean, all frickin' day. It drove my dad crazy. We were on Cape Cod and Sammy would march up and down the dunes chanting 'Rosa Rugosa'."

"Beach rose."

"You know it?"

Castiel nodded. "I used to summer on the cape actually. I would eat the hips off of the roses when I was too busy to go inside and eat lunch."

"No shit. What did they taste like?"

"Well," Castiel paused and smiled softly. "I used to say they tasted like the sea. But I think if I was to describe it now, I'd say wet cardboard. They were really pretty flavorless."

Dean chuckled. "I'll have to tell Sam that, he'll love it. Do you have anybody visiting today?"

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Why?"

"Much of my family has passed away, and the ones who are still alive have no reason to visit their criminal relative."

"Dude, that sucks."

It didn't strike Dean until much later that he had asked Castiel an incredibly personal question. Not long after, a guard came to collect Dean for his visit with his brother. By law, Dean was permitted at least four hours of visitation per month and per the stipulation of his sentencing he was allowed eight. Personally, Dean figured that the judge and jury had taken pity on his brother who had been sporting some serious puppy dog eyes throughout the trial. Before he was let out of the cell, Dean was outfitted with both wrist and ankle shackles, in an effort to impede any escape or assault. He didn't have the heart to tell the prison guards that if he really wanted to get out of them he could do it in less than five minutes. Then again, it was probably best not to advertise that particular skill set.

"Dean!" Sam shot up from the table, nearly toppling over the plastic chair he had been sitting on.

"Hey Sammy boy, how's it hangin'?" It was a true measure of how much Sam had missed Dean that he didn't even bother to correct him for calling him 'Sammy'. Or for making light of his pretty permanent situation.

"You look good."

"Yeah, well prison life agrees with me."

"Dean, I'm pretty sure prison life agrees with no one. What do you guys even have to eat here?"

"For breakfast, gruel pancakes. For lunch, gruel burritos. Dinner, just gruel but with extra gruel for dessert."

"But seriously, has any of the food not been frozen for most of its life?"

"I don't even know. It's like really bad school cafeteria food. Do you remember that school in Nebraska that we went to for a couple of weeks in '87?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Well at least the prison food hasn't given me the runs for three days straight."

"Gross, Dean. Definitely did not need that walk down memory lane." But Sam grinned and leaned closer on the table. He looked tired, Dean noticed. He hoped it was because of the move and not because his older brother was in jail for life for the charges of first degree murder. He hoped, but didn't necessarily believe it. "So, is that your only jumpsuit?" Sam asked gesturing to Dean's orange outfit. "I thought it would be different."

"You thought it would have black and white stripes."

"No!" Sam denied, flushing slightly. "That's stupid."

"That's our formal wear, Sammy. I got stripes, but I only wear it for special occasions. Like for the Crips Ball, or the Latin Kings Formal."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"I'm serious." Sam's face was grave. "Gangs are dangerous, Dean. Are they giving you any trouble?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn't as if Sam could protect him from gangs. The only thing he might be able to do would be to sneak a switch-blade in for Dean. Now, that would be helpful. "The Bloods and Crips aren't exactly lining up to get me in their gang. And the Kings would rather die than have somebody who doesn't speak Spanish in their club. The only one who wants me is the Aryan Brotherhood." Dean raised his eyebrows. "And I'm not getting anywhere close to that one. Buncha sheet heads."

Sam groaned. "That was terrible."

"I thought it was a little punny."

"Seriously, stop." Before Dean could think of another, Sam barreled through. "I heard you got a new cellmate. What's he like?"

"He's alright. Quiet." Dean paused, trying to think of adequate descriptors for his fellow prisoner. "His name is Castiel, and he's crazy smart. I think you'd like him, Sammy. He even knows what 'Rosa Rogusa' is. He used to eat those weird little tomato things when he was little."

Sam chuckled. "Really? I haven't thought about that in forever. That was a really good summer."

"Yeah, it was. Except for those killer sunburns, and the time you stepped on the jellyfish."

"You peed on my foot." Sam shivered. "I don't think I'll ever get over that."

"It was either that or amputation!"

"Looking back, I don't think it would have been that hard to get along with one foot." Sam teased. "Probably would save me years of mental anguish."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The remainder of the hour passed all too quickly for Dean, and soon he was trudging back to the cell already looking forward to the next week when he would get to spend another short hour with his brother.

"Was your brother well?"

"He still has his stupid haircut, but he seems happy enough." Dean smiled sadly. "There's only one thing that I regret about killing that bastard Azazel, and it's that I won't be able to see Sammy grow old. Not the right way anyways."

"You're very strange, Dean." Castiel blurted out.

"Excuse me?"

"What I meant was," Castiel started quickly "most of the men in here who have killed, deny it at every turn. Or at least they did for their trial. Crowley says that there are more innocent men in jail than on the outside." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "But you admit it time and time again."

"So, what, do you think I'm like a serial killer or something?"

"No, Dean. I think you are one of the more honorable men in here. A righteous man." Castiel smiled. "The eradication of evil is not a crime."

Dean visibly relaxed, his features softening. "Tell that to the US government."

"I try, but they keep ignoring my letters."

Dean let out a bark of laughter. "And you say I'm the strange one." Settling into his bunk, Dean remained silent for a moment before turning over to face Castiel. "Who's Crowley?"

Castiel hesitated; friend was too strong of a word to describe his relationship with the Brit. "He's an acquaintance. He calls himself the King of Folsom. I find it a bit presumptuous." Castiel admitted.

"A bit." Dean agreed. "How'd he settle on that name?"

"He says he can get anything into the prison, for a price."

"Anything? Really?"

Castiel nodded. "You'd be amazed."

"What about porn?"

"Yes, I think that's in his capacity."

"Castiel, I think it's time you introduced me to your friends."

As it would turn out, Dean wouldn't have to wait too long to meet the self-titled "King of Folsom". That day at lunch, Castiel led him to his usual table and introduced the two. Dean was surprised to see that the man who supposedly ran the prison was pretty underwhelming on first sight. He was shorter, sporting a slight belly and starting to lose a bit of hair in his northern regions. On second glance however, it was clear why Crowley had been able to hold on to some semblance of power in the jail. His eyes were dark and calculating and Dean didn't think for a moment that Crowley wasn't a threat.

"Crowley, this is my new cellmate Dean. Dean, Crowley."

"Dean?" Crowley asked. "It couldn't be the Dean Winchester could it? Folsom's very own celebrity?"

"The one and only."

"Well, Dean, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Cas here told me you can get me things from the outside."

"Well Cas informed you correctly. If the price is right, of course. What was it that you fancied? A file baked into a tart? A top notch escort for your next conjugal visit?"

"Maybe next time." Dean said easily. "Right now all I need is a dirty magazine."

"Easy enough." Crowley waved his hand. "What's your poison?"

"Busty Asian Beauties." Dean grinned widely. "I've missed my girls."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "It will cost you three bars of soap. Savvy?"

"Soap?" Dean asked, confused. "I thought you guys dealt with cigarettes."

"There are only so many cigarettes I can smoke, Dean. Right now I need soap, so I'm charging in soap. Not everything is like the films."

And that was Dean's first meeting with Crowley. Short, demeaning and it left Dean jonesing for a shower. This, with him being in prison and all, was a very, very rare occurrence. As much as Dean was beginning to trust Castiel and his quiet, easy ways, Dean was still weary of his new cellmate. It was too early to trust him any further than Dean could throw him. And if there was one secret that Dean guarded very carefully since being thrown in the clink it was that his sexuality was more fluid than most people realized. And Dean did not need the other men in Folsom to have another reason for sneaking up behind him in the showers. Unless they were looking for a solid punch to the kidneys.


	4. Don't Bring Your Guns to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And after reading the article and a few linked sources, Sam concluded that Castiel either had the best lawyer this side of the Mississippi or had a brew of Filix Felicis hidden away. Because for what he did, he should have been put away for a lot longer than nine years.

Sam's fingers danced happily on the steering wheel. Dean had seemed in remarkably good spirits considering the shitshow his past year had been. Sam was the first one to admit that their childhood had been less than ideal. But at least he had broken out on his own for the most part; Dean had gotten caught up in the revenge fueled life that their father had started. He didn't even know why he was surprised when the feds had shown up at his dorm asking him if he was harboring his brother, who apparently was now a fugitive. Other than their killer looks, the Winchesters were known for their stubbornness so it came to nobody's surprise when Dean killed Azazel. It had only been a matter of time. And considering how sloppy Dean had been with it, it was a miracle that he had managed to stay out of custody for almost a year. Sam just wished that Dean had waited for a few more years and been able to keep his freedom for that much longer. Or at least go about it smarter. But it was Dean, and if he had the shot, he was going to take it. Still, that didn't keep Sam from wishing that he could see his brother again without prison guards standing by.

Sam had been assured by Dean's lawyers that Folsom would be good for Dean. It had more amenities than some of the other prisons in the country, even if it was doomed to rely on the state of California for funding. Once Dean was situated he would be given a job, outside time and access to the prison library. They even mentioned that he would be able to continue his education if he wanted to. Sam knew that it wasn't Dean's cup of tea, but it would at least keep him busy. And if Sam knew one thing about prison, it was that there was a lot of free time. He had even heard that Dean might get placed in the mechanic track at the prison, which would keep him entertained.

Still, there was nothing as uniquely soul crushing as knowing that your brother, essentially your entire family, was pretty much dead to the world without the whole ya know being not alive part. Sure, Sam could see him for a couple of hours every week, but Dean wouldn't be able to go to his wedding, visit him in the hospital if he got sick or even hustle pool with him at the local dive bar. Not to mention the awkwardness that ensued when Sam shared that his brother was currently serving a life term for murder. And there was the weird degree of fame that came with being related to the hottest media subject of the past year. Some women and men had become convinced that Dean was their soul mate and had tracked Sam down trying to persuade him to organize a conjugal visit for them. It was disgusting.

Sam had started the moving process once it was determined where Dean was going to be spending the rest of his life. It turned out that Sacramento was actually a very nice place to live, a lot better than LA anyhow. There was something about the shark like atmosphere of LA that had turned Sam off; it wasn't long after he moved that Sam realized that northern California was where he belonged. His apartment wasn't perfect, but the rent was cheap and it was close to the city's library where he would be spending most of his time. Also, if he sat in the corner of his living room he could pick up the Starbucks' Wi-Fi from downstairs. So that was pretty good.

Dean had given him the Impala once it was clear that he was no longer a free man. Sam didn't pretend that he shared the same bond with the car that Dean had, but he still liked it nonetheless. It was the closest thing he had to a home during his formative years, and now was one of the last things that was so undeniably Dean that he had. A surprising amount of Dean's belongings had been taken by the feds for investigative purposes and had never been returned. For whatever reason, they had completely ignored the classic car that had been covered up with an unassuming tarp in a storage unit rented under Dean's name. Sam was personally very glad for this fact, considering the small arsenal that was hidden under a false bottom in the trunk. The one thing that Sam did not like about the Impala, besides the lack of air conditioning and functioning air bags, was the black interior that rivaled the temperature of the surface of the sun after being left in the prison parking lot during his visit.

After an uncomfortable dance on the seat cushion and unfortunate moment where he laid his arm on the leather and undoubtedly left some skin behind, Sam had peeled out of the parking lot and prayed to all the gods that Dean hadn't been able to hear the distinctive roar of the Impala's engine from his cell. Somehow he thought that it would break Dean's heart more than him being stuck in prison.

The highways were blessedly free of traffic and Sam was free to let his thoughts wander about the visit. Dean had mentioned something about his new cellmate, Castiel. Other than insinuating that he was a massive nerd, Sam had no idea what Dean knew about the guy. Even if Dean didn't want to know, Sam sure has hell did, and thus decided to do a thorough Googling when he got back to his apartment.

It took a half an hour on the laptop for Sam to get his answer, and most of that was trying to figure out the order form on the prison website which would allow him to order some items to Dean to furnish his cell with. Sam had started off easy, buying him an AM/FM radio with a cassette player and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Dean would bitch about it and pretend that he didn't like it, but Sam knew better. Underneath all the leather and crass comments, his brother was a huge nerd. After, he got to figuring out a little more about the mysterious Castiel. It took almost zero effort; an article detailing Castiel's case and ruling was only the third result. And after reading the article and a few linked sources, Sam concluded that Castiel either had the best lawyer this side of the Mississippi or had a brew of Filix Felicis hidden away. Because for what he did, he should have been put away for a lot longer than nine years.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For all the excitement of the morning and early afternoon, the rest of the day was amazingly boring. Dean still hadn't been assigned his work station, and most of the 'recreational' activities were curbed on the weekend. The remainder of the weekend passed just as slowly, Castiel had been quiet and Dean had decided to save him from the word vomit that permanently afflicted Dean. Even the showers which usually included at least one fight were noticeably quiet. Of course, Dean hardly noticed this with his laser focus on his feet. Nearly every time he looked up he had managed to zero in on his cellie soaping up. This did nothing to help control his boner management. There were few things more embarrassing than a public hard on, especially one in a shower room with a bunch of dudes who wouldn't think twice about slitting Dean's throat if he so much as looked at them the wrong way. So, Dean kept his eyes on his toes and thought fiercely about the one time he had met his Great-Aunt Maura who had sported an impressive post-menopausal moustache.

To be honest, it wasn't surprising that Dean was ready to jump Castiel's bones with nothing more than eye contact. Due to the whole being in prison situation, Dean hadn't been able to get his rocks off in a while, and he knew that couldn't be healthy. Sure, he had been propositioned, but they hadn't been romantic inquiries as much as they had been promises to 'tear his ass like tissue paper'. Which he wasn't completely on board with. Sue him; he was old-fashioned and preferred consent from both parties. Not to mention, Sam had carefully mentioned the rates of STD occurrences behind bars and Dean was in no rush to get herpes.

But Dean enjoyed Castiel's company and wasn't exactly rearing to scar the guy for life. If Cas showed some interest, that was a different story, but Dean had seen enough prison movies to know that consent was shaky at best in the clink. Still, Dean wasn't too sure he'd be able to live out the rest of his days in celibacy. Sex and alcohol was like 80% of his personality, and he was already dry, he wasn't sure how much else he could give up.

It wasn't until that Monday did Castiel actually initiate another conversation.

"May I ask you something personal, Dean?"

"It's not like we have anything else to do. Go for it."

"Why did you choose to shoot Azazel?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Why a gun? Surely there are more efficient methods to murder someone and one that wouldn't be as easily traced to you. Poison, perhaps."

Dean had to hand it to Castiel; he was a smart son of a bitch. "Cuz I'm not that smart, Cas." Dean chuckled. "I saw that dick and I had my .44 on my belt, so I shot."

"You shouldn't demean yourself, Dean. You are very intelligent."

"Cas, I'm many things, and brainy ain't one of them. I can MacGyver a car into running for another twenty miles, but I can't for the life of me tell you how to find the circumference of a circle. But that's fine, I've got my GED and a give 'em hell attitude. That's all that matters."

"You may not have what some call 'book smarts', but it was clear to me from watching your trial that you are smarter than you let on."

"How do you mean?"

Castiel blinked at him as if the answer was clear. "You had the media eating out of your hand by the end of the trial. I was surprised that none of them actually vouched for your innocence."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, I guess. That was easy though, they had already decided what they wanted to be, so I just played along. Didn't you hear? I was the roguishly handsome bad boy that guys wanted to be and all the girls wanted to be with. They didn't care about the details; I was a real life Han Solo. Without the benefit of having Leia, of course."

Dean was surprised to see Castiel frown. Although, he probably shouldn't have been, the dude frowned more than anyone Dean had ever met. "What details are you talking about, Dean?"

Dean paused; this was not the way that he wanted the conversation to turn. There was no way he was going to be caught telling some random guy about his bullshit problems. "Know what's funny, Cas?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "I think my mom would have been angrier that I shot Azazel with a gun rather than the fact that I actually murdered somebody."

"I-I don't understand."

"My mom was super weirded out by guns. I don't know what it was, maybe some left over fear from childhood. My dad said that my grandpa had taken her out hunting when she was really little and pretty much scarred her for life when he shot a ten point buck right in front of her." Dean shrugged. "Anyways, I remember whenever I'd play Cowboys and Indians or Cops and Robbers or whatever, she would always try to make me use something else besides that little water pistol I had. She even gave me a slingshot, but that got confiscated after like two days in school. She even wouldn't let me take the water gun with us when we'd go grocery shopping, she'd always say 'Dean, don't take your guns to town'." Dean said, doing a pretty piss poor imitation of a woman's voice. "I never really understood it. Maybe it was just one of those weird mom things, like who wants to see your kid with a gun killing something?" Dean knew he was rambling and that it was time to shut up. Finally, he ran out of words and looked weakly up to Castiel who was staring at him like he was a particularly puzzling piece of art.

"Why did you tell me that, Dean?"

"I dunno. Seemed like a good story. I mean, we're bunk buddies and everything. Figured you should know something about me."

Castiel nodded slowly, and Dean could particularly hear the gears in his mind working. "I see. Would you like to hear a story from my childhood?"

"Yeah, man. Sure."

He took a deep breath and smoothed out invisible creases on his bright orange jumpsuit. "When I was young, maybe seven or eight, my cousin Balthazar told me a scary story and-"

"What was the story?" Dean interrupted.

"It was about a young couple who moved into a house which they believed to be haunted after they woke up with a message on the wall telling them to leave written in their dead dog's blood."

"Dude, that's sick. Your cousin is a bastard."

"Yes, it was probably unwise for him to tell it to me at such an impressionable age."

"So what happened next?"

"In the ghost story? Well it turned out that it wasn't ghosts at all-"

"No, with your cousin."

"Ah, yes." Castiel cleared his throat slightly in embarrassment. "After he finished telling the story, I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night so the next morning he took pity on me. He told me that if I jumped off the roof of the cottage, the monsters from the story wouldn't be able to find me."

"That makes no sense."

"Yes, I can see that now. Unfortunately, when I was seven the logic seemed infallible. So, I jumped off the roof."

"And?"

Castiel smiled ruefully. "I broke my leg in three places."

"Dude!"

"After our parents found out why I had jumped off the roof, Balthazar was punished severely and regulated to be my personal errand boy for the remainder of my bed rest. He was unpleased, but never tried to fool me again."

Dean laughed deeply. "Serves him right. Sounds like he was a major dick."

After that, they settled into a companionable silence, both turning to their individual books. Castiel had chosen the book for him, oddly enough, mentioning something about thinking that Dean liking American authors. It was true, Dean preferred Twain and Steinbeck to Shakespeare any day, he just didn't remember voicing this partiality to Castiel ever. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the classic, and settled into reading a particularly well loved copy of Grapes of Wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten points for Gryffindor if you caught the HP reference.


	5. In the Jailhouse Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, Dean-o. Do you do that often? Take guys to the alley and really give them a good pounding, I mean." Gabriel asked innocently.

"Tell me about yourself, Dean."

"You have my entire life story in that folder. What's there to tell?"

"Well, I'd like to hear it in your own words. And I don't have to tell you that these don't usually give the whole story."

Dean eyed the court ordered prison shrink from across the table. She seemed like a nice enough girl. But that was just it, she was a girl. Fresh out of college and looking to make a difference in the world, starting at the high security prison down the street from her studio apartment. She had a shock of red hair and big round eyes that gave her a permanent deer in the head lights look. Dean figured that she was pretty, and probably would have been worth a try on the outside.

"Okay, Dr. Milton-"

"Anna."

"Alright, Anna. What d'ya wanna know?"

"Start at the beginning. What's your earliest memory?"

And so for the next half an hour, Dean talked nearly nonstop about his life. He didn't really get into specifics, just stories that he remembered about Sammy or his dad. It was a lot easier than he had expected maybe it just felt good to talk without any fear of repercussions. As long as he didn't get too dark, Anna would listen happily to his stories and keep him off the meds. If there was one thing that Dean did not want, it was to get doped up. All he was looking for right now was to keep his head down and maybe get transferred to a mid-security prison by the end of the decade. He figured it would be easier to sleep at night if he knew that his blockmates weren't rapists and arsonists. Never could tell with those. Murderers were easy to understand, even the few pedophiles they had in the clink were predictable. But the rapists and arsonists Dean would never understand, so he tried to give them a wide berth.

"Very good, Dean." Anna tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. Dean thought that she'd be the touchy-feely type if she had been allowed to touch the prisoners. Even with the three guards standing outside the door of the therapy room, Dean still had his ankles and wrists chained together. "Now," she flipped through Dean's folder "this says that you just got transferred with a new cellmate about a week ago, Castiel. How do you get along with him?"

Good, except for the inappropriate boners, Dean thought bitterly to himself. "Fine." He shrugged. "He's quiet, we get along pretty well. He hasn't tried to rape me yet, so that's a plus." He joked, his smile faltering when Anna's face blanched. "But seriously," Dean started quickly "he's a good guy. Don't know too much about him, but I think we could be friends."

Anna regained her lost composure. "That's great, Dean. Being friendly with your peers will help your sentence feel more manageable." She glanced down at the folder again and frowned slightly. "What exactly has Castiel told you about his imprisonment?"

"Not much, except that he's innocent. I think he's about half way through his sentence and he's up for parole in a couple of months." He tried to cross his arms but was stopped by the chains. "Why?"

"No reason in particular." Anna lied badly. "He's been notoriously closed to the other prisoners. It's nice to see that he's opening up." She checked the large clock on the wall. "And that's all the time we have, I'll see you next time."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was getting increasingly difficult for Castiel to keep his attraction towards his cellmate a secret. It wasn't just that Dean was arguably one of the more attractive prisoners to come through Folsom in the last decade. It was that when Castiel should have found him infuriating, he found him charming. He would never admit it, but Dean chewing with his mouth full during meals, having the attention span of a four year old on speed, and his complete and utter devotion to his brother was adorable. Or, as adorable as a lifer could get. The point was, he thought he was keeping it under wraps successfully, until one day at lunch.

Since Dean had moved into Castiel's cell, he had gotten into the habit of following Castiel around from place to place. Castiel doubted he was even aware of his own actions, since most of the time Dean was talking happily about his car on the outside that he called 'Baby', or recounting another time he got drunk and into a fight over a girl. Most of the time, Castiel just nodded silently while pretending to read whatever book he had pulled off of the library cart that week. At meal times, they ate with Castiel's small circle of acquaintances, Jacob, Gabriel and occasionally Crowley.

"And so, by this point, I was like six beers deep and still trying to hustle some pool." Dean explained, stabbing his Salisbury steak viciously and stuffing it into his already full mouth. "And this monster of a guy is just eyeing me from the corner of the bar. I only see that expression on somebody for two reasons, if they wanna fuck or if they wanna fight. So, I walked up to this guy. He was like freakin' hulk, had to be at least 6'5'' and I say to him 'Are we cool? Or am I gonna have to go to the alley and tear your ass apart?'."

Gabriel chuckled. "And what happened next, hot shot?"

"That's when it gets good. He looks right at me and says, 'Guess you're going to have to tear my ass apart, ese." Dean poorly mimicked a Mexican accent. "And so I did, we went to the back alley and I just gave it to him. No mercy. I tore that cholo apart. I bet he couldn't walk for days."

Castiel choked on his food. After a few greedy gulps of air, he tried to calm himself down. Dean was talking about beating a stranger up in the bar. Just another one of his stories. He wasn't talking about taking the guy to the back and having his way with him. Cas took another breath to steady himself.

"You alright there, Cas?" Dean asked, curiously.

Castiel just nodded mutely, willing the flush in his face to disappear. After a weird look, Dean left him alone, but there was still one pair of eyes trained on Castiel. Castiel looked up and found a smile spreading across Gabriel's face. Castiel's heart sank to his stomach. This could not be good.

"So, Dean-o. Do you do that often? Take guys to the alley and really give them a good pounding, I mean." Gabriel asked innocently.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Sometimes you just need to get it out of your system, you know?"

"Not really my style." Gabriel said easily. "But I think Castiel might."

Dean gave Gabriel a confused look and then let out a short bark of laughter. "You're kidding me, right? Cas?"

"You'd be surprised." Gabriel winked and returned to his meal, a smirk playing across his features.

This was not good, Castiel thought. Even if Dean hadn't picked up on Gabriel's less than subtle hinting, Gabriel still knew. Castiel didn't consider Gabriel a particular threat, the fact that Castiel's most closely guarded secret was now out in the open was not a reassuring thought. And Gabriel was not known for his secret keeping abilities. For the rest of the day, Castiel withdrew into himself and had a panic attack playing through all the potential situations that could come out of this. More than anything, he hoped that Gabriel's comments hadn't meant anything to Dean, and Dean hadn't picked up on the innuendo.

But of course, luck was not with Castiel and the gods seemed determined to make his sexual preferences known to the world. Dean was mostly quiet after lunch, slipping into his usual food coma and snoring heavily in the bunk next to Castiel. True to form, Castiel's traitorous thoughts found Dean's hearty snores endearing rather than annoying during their quiet hour. That was manageable however, and further Castiel and Dean were away from curious eyes. Their outside rec time was a different story.

In theory, the outside time could be used for a multitude of different activities. The prison yard had a baseball field, a basketball court, free weights and bleachers just to sit and watch. Castiel usually opted to sit on the bleachers, either reading or quietly observing. Outside time was usually used to solidify gang relations, or incite fights. It was one of the only times that they weren't shackled, and had a certain amount of freedom granted to them. Dean, Castiel had noticed, favored watching the prisoners with him, occasionally elbowing Cas in the ribs and pointing out a drug deal going down out of sight of the guards. But today was different, and Dean walked right by Castiel and towards the free weights.

It was a warmer day, the sun was out and shining and many of the prisoners were opting to stay in the shade and away from the blaringly hot blacktop. But Dean, as Castiel watched, headed straight to the free weights section of the pavement and grabbed some of the larger weights. He worked methodically, working through some inner plan. Castiel had never been one for weight lifting, he preferred running or skiing for exercise, but he had to admit that Dean made it look appealing.

"He's a different one, isn't he?" Crowley asked, appearing as Castiel's side. "And don't act coy; you've been making cow-eyes at him for the better part of an hour."

"What did you want, Crowley?"

"Ouch. No pleasantries? Tsk tsk, Castiel." Crowley clucked. "Anyways, tell Men's Health over there that his shipment is in. That is unless you like him a little frustrated."

Castiel frowned and kept the mask of indifference on his face. "I'm sure I don't know what you are referring to."

"Of course you don't sunshine." Crowley grinned predatorily. "A word from a friend? Tell Mr. Winchester to cool it with the strip tease, he's gonna get the boys all riled up."

Castiel's head snapped back towards the work out area. Sure enough, Dean had unzipped the top half of his jumpsuit and was wearing only a rather tight wife beater on his torso. And in a particularly cruel twist of fate, Dean chose that moment to find Castiel on the bleachers and send him a grin. Castiel's mouth went dry and his brain went offline for a moment. It was a true testament to how long Castiel had been celibate by how easy it was for Dean to get him going.

Collecting himself, Castiel returned his gaze to his book. Even if he hadn't managed to get through a single page for the rest of the hour, it was important that he didn't see Dean again until they were back to the cell. Even then, it would probably be in his best interest to keep to himself. Having friends was a big enough liability, let alone a grade school crush which could only reasonably end up with a knife in Castiel's side. Romantic relationships were pretty much unheard of inside the clink, and Castiel was in no hurry to change the status quo, as tempting as it was. He had the potential to be out of Folsom in less than a year, and he couldn't afford to have anybody get in his way. Even a foul-mouthed pretty boy who may or may not be playing with Castiel's libido on purpose.


	6. Cocaine Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dude, I'm not gonna jack off with you five feet away." Unless you're into that kind of thing, Dean's treacherous mind supplied. "How big of a douchebag do you think I am?"

Dean had to admit that he wasn't completely innocent on the whole 'Make Castiel Sport Inappropriate Hard Ons' situation. Granted, he wasn't 100% on whether Cas had gotten a little too excited in the prison yard, but judging by his incessant staring, Dean figured there was at least an 85% chance that Cas wanted to jump him. In a good way, not in the 'beat Dean's face into a bloody pulp' way. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do with this information because Dean wasn't sure if he could deal with the awkwardness if it backfired. For some reason he didn't think that the warden considered 'rejected sexual advances' a valid reason for a cellie change. The only transfers he had seen were a result of somebody getting shanked. And that was more of a transfer to the infirmary or solitary, not to a cellmate who thought you were funnier.

True, Dean was stoked that he might be able to get some before he died, but it was complicated. Consent was a tricky thing behind bars. So, Dean would communicate his willingness to have a roll in the hay and the rest would be up to Cas. If the other man felt the same way, Dean wouldn't make a real move until after Castiel did. But judging on Cas's perception skills, Dean had a feeling that the glaciers could melt and refreeze before Castiel so much as showed interest. But Dean was willing to be proven wrong.

But, much to Dean's chagrin, he was pretty much ignored for the rest of the day. Either the book Cas was reading was the friggin' word of God or he was purposely keeping Dean out of his eyesight. Which, if the latter was true, was a major win in Dean's book. Because if Castiel couldn't so much as look at him, it might be easier than Dean thought to get the nerdy prisoner to make a move. Or at least turn into a puddle of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind he knew he probably should be devoting his attention to something besides seducing his cellie. Learning a second language for example or even seeing if there was any loophole in the law that would make him a free man.

It wasn't until just before the guards came to pick Castiel up for his shift in the laundry room did Castiel speak.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Crowley approached me in the yard earlier today while you were exercising and he informed me that your magazine has arrived. You can pay for it next time you see him."

"Oh yeah, about that." Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know what I was thinking when I asked him to get that for me."

Castiel gave him a blank stare.

"What do you mean, Dean? The need for sexual release is very natural."

Dean choked slightly, but managed to play it off as a cough. "Dude, I'm not gonna jack off with you five feet away." Unless you're into that kind of thing, Dean's treacherous mind supplied. "How big of a douchebag do you think I am?"

Castiel's brow furrowed and mouth opened as if he was going to say something and then thought better of it, closed it again. Instead, he opted to shake his head and mutter something under his breath that Dean couldn't quite catch. Feeling slightly uncomfortable and desperate to change the subject, Dean's mouth acted without any consultation with his brain.

"So, you ever gonna tell me how you got in here, Cas?"

His cellmate's head jerked up in surprise, his eyes wide. But after the initial shock wore off, a smirk played across Cas' lips. "Maybe soon, Dean. When I think you are ready to handle it."

Dean grinned easily, stretching out on his bunk like a cat. "Oh, I can handle it, don't you worry about that."

"Even so, I'll keep it to myself for just a bit longer."

"Fine, fine, fine." Dean snapped in mock irritation. "If you want to be dark, handsome, and mysterious, who am I to stop you?"

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Castiel was in a Not Good situation. He had been able to keep his mouth shut for approximately three hours and fifteen minutes before he decided he couldn't take it anymore. He told himself he was talking to Dean purely for the reason of passing along Crowley's message. But the excuse fell flat even in his own head.

He had been so on edge since the time in the yard; it was a miracle that Dean hadn't commented on it. Castiel was sure that he was projecting his emotions clear across the room. It wasn't bad in itself that Castiel was talking to Dean. It was bad because despite his best efforts, Castiel was flirting with him. Which wasn't helped when Dean off-handedly called Castiel handsome. Yes, Castiel's life had gone from manageable to off the tracks in the span of a couple of hours. Definitely not good.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Time passed slowly without Castiel to keep him company in the cell. While Cas was gone, the items that Sam had ordered for Dean arrived. Two small boxes wrapped in brown paper slid through the bars, along with a catalogue with more items that could be purchased through the prison.

Dean quickly ripped the paper off of the packages, eager to see what was inside. He unwrapped the books first, a paperback edition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Like every other person on the planet, he had seen the movies when they had been released, mostly because of the smoking hot elf girl. But, he had never read the stories, mostly due to the fact that he never had the time. Now, he supposed, he had nothing but time. The second, smaller, package had a small battery powered radio inside. Grinning, Dean fiddled with the dials attempting to find a clear station. The only station that would come through was an oldies station, complete with an overly sunny DJ who interrupted every few songs to reminisce about the 'good old days'. Even though the radio was tinny and the music sucked, Dean was happy for the change of pace. More than anything he wanted to take a long drive in the Impala with AC/DC blasting and no plan. Just driving for the sake of driving.

Leaving the books until he was crazy desperate for entertainment, Dean flipped through the catalogue of prison approved care packages. Most of it was just extra toiletries, or even snacks from the outside, but there was a section that grabbed Dean's attention, sporting goods. Specifically, the accessories. Next to the footballs, basketballs and soccer balls there was an air pump to inflate the balls. On the air pump there was a tube that was at least three feet in length. Outside, Dean heard a squawk from a startled duck on the mill pond and an idea slowly formed in his head.

The rest of the afternoon passed more quickly after that, Dean lost in thought and closed off from the world. He hardly even noticed when the cell doors opened to let Castiel back in. It wasn't until he was in the mess hall for dinner was he brought out of his isolation. Castiel, as usual, was pushing the soggy peas around on his plate dutifully ignoring Gabriel's jibes. Gabriel, on the other hand, was regaling the table with stories from his brief but exciting stint as the richest man in New York. Even though Dean had only been paying attention for about five seconds, he didn't think he could take another extremely detailed retelling of an orgy with one of the Olsen twins.

"So, Josh." Dean interrupted, looking over at the quiet older man. "We all know why loud-mouth over here is in the joint, but what about you? I haven't heard a peep out of you."

Joshua smiled weakly and set down his cutlery. "You're too young to really remember, but in the early 80's, cocaine was very popular. In the cities you couldn't go five feet without seeing people snort up in the public restrooms or dealing in the clubs. I was younger, and I-I" Joshua took a deep breath "I made some poor decisions. I was working as a bouncer in one of the clubs and had developed a bit of a habit."

Dean listened closely, the idea that this mild-mannered prisoner was a coke head in a previous life completely taking him by surprise.

"Pretty soon after that, I was addicted and I was neurotic. The drugs messed with my head. My wife had been working late and I became convinced that she was cheating on me. Then, one night I took my .44 from the closet and shot her to death." Joshua's voice was oddly flat, as if he was telling a story of somebody else's life. "When I came down from the high, I realized what I had done and I ran. By the time the cops caught up to me, I was down in Juarez trying to sell my car for more coke. Arrested for voluntary manslaughter, on account of the drugs, and a bunch of other offenses."

Dean let out a low whistle. "Jeez, I had you pegged all wrong Joshy-boy."

"However, I've left that all behind, the moment I stepped into Folsom." Joshua said serenely, scaring Dean just a little bit. "I found my Lord and Savior, and I've redeemed myself in the eyes of Heaven." That was it; Dean was not instigating another conversation with Joshua for as long as he lived. Dude had gone crazy. He looked around the table, but nobody looked especially surprised by Joshua's tale. Even Crowley who made a point of shitting on everything anyone said ever. Dean figured that Joshua either had earned the respect from everybody at the table, or more likely, they had given up on trying to understand the strange man.

From then on, the meal passed with quiet conversations and laughter. That was until Juan, a new recruit to the Latin Kings, was forced to prove his dedication to the gang by shivving a stranger at dinner. Then, all chaos broke out. As soon as everybody realized what had just happened, the fighting started. Gangs threw punches, stabbed with their dirty knives and forks and Dean was sure he saw a couple of people get head-butted. After a moment of absorbing the situation, Dean sprung into action. Without a second thought, he jumped from the table and grabbed Cas' arm.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Cas hissed, watching the fighting nervously.

"I'm sure as hell not going to lose my only friend in this place, dude." Dean replied easily, pushing Cas in front of him. He was heading towards one of the corners of the cafeteria, it wouldn't give them the best sightlines in the room, but they'd be protected from two sides. If anything could ruin your day, it was being stabbed in the back. Ignoring the way Cas' arm felt underneath his hands, Dean patted his pockets looking for anything to help them.

"You didn't grab anything before you left, did ya?"

Castiel glared at Dean. "You mean before you pushed me across the cafeteria without a word?"

"Okay," Dean breathed and shot what he hoped was a reassuring smile at Castiel "I hope you have one mean right hook on ya, because this is going to get a little messy."


	7. I Won't Back Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He probably knew this from the first time he saw Dean's cocky smile on the fuzzy TV screen in the rec room, but he trusted Dean Winchester. God help him.

Despite the involvement of at least a dozen guards, the riot was still going at full force. This made Castiel more than a little uneasy. All he wanted to do was escape unscathed; he wasn't looking for any macho points or any reason for the prison board to see that he needed any extra years in the pen. Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to share his outlook on the situation. Castiel didn't even know where half of the prisoners had been able to find their weapons. Most of them were obviously homemade; toothbrushes with sharpened ends, jagged pieces of a metal bedframes, and even a couple springs that must have come from the mattresses. Others however, were definitely brought in from the outside; there were a handful of brass knuckles and even what looked like a filleting knife.

For a few minutes, Castiel was just able to observe the mayhem. Men were bleeding everywhere; some of them had already hit the floor and were attempting to crawl away from the fight. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh and bones cracking filled the hall and the warnings from the guards carried above the riot. Castiel knew from experience that the guards were supposed to suppress riots with as little violence as possible, no matter the reason, the public did not look kindly on guards open firing on prisoners.

The fight was almost in slow motion; Castiel had time to see the individual fights between the gangs, but then all too quickly it returned to real time.

Crack.

Castiel crumpled to the floor. While he was busy watching the events transpiring in front of him, he had completely missed the Crip slinking up with a slightly rusted piece of a bed frame. The other prisoner had hit him directly in the stomach, punching the air out of Cas' lungs. Castiel tried in vain to breathe, only managing to cough and sputter onto the bloody linoleum tiles. Castiel hoped very dearly that it was somebody else's blood. But there was no time to recover; Cas was woefully unprotected laying prostrate on the floor without any discernible weapon. While Cas scrambled up against the wall, desperate for any sort of protection, his knight in retina blinding orange jumpsuit came to his rescue.

"Cas!" Dean spun around, and upon finding the cause of Cas' involuntary yelp, contorted his face into an expression that Castiel wished to never see again. It was a face that gave Castiel no trouble in reminding him that Dean had killed in cold blood before. "You son of a bitch." Apparently not bothered at all by the fact that the man who had attacked Castiel was wielding a rather intimidating weapon, Dean lunged at the Crip. A scream died in Castiel's throat when he realized that the fight was incredibly one sided in Dean's favor. The Crip was getting a few blows in, but Dean was absolutely pummeling the man.

Straddling the prisoner's waist, Dean wrangled the bar out of his hands and tossed it to Cas who caught it at the last moment. He noticed detachedly, that it was covered in blood and hair. Once the metal was out of the equation, there was no stopping Dean, he was a force to be reckoned with. Soon, the man stopped struggling and sort of fell limp on the floor, his head lolling to the side.

"Dean!" Castiel called. "Stop it, that's enough, he's had enough." Resting his hand on Dean's shoulder, Castiel nodded towards the now unconscious prisoner. "His gang will deal with him."

Dean nodded slowly, as if coming out of a trance. Pushing himself off of the floor, Dean self-consciously wiped his bloodied hands on the jumpsuit. The riot still raged around them, but to Castiel it was like somebody had pressed mute. The only sound he was fully aware of was his own heart beat and Dean's heavy breathing.

Dropping the metal bar on the floor with a dull clatter, Castiel held Dean's elbow.

"You protected me." It wasn't a question.

"I had to, Cas. That dick was gonna hurt you."

Castiel knew it wasn't right what he was feeling. Where terror and disgust should have been, he only felt relief, affection and even arousal. Dean was a dangerous man; there was no doubt about it. But there were plenty who would say the same thing about himself. Danger was relative in the clink, and to Castiel, Dean posed no real threat. He probably knew this from the first time he saw Dean's cocky smile on the fuzzy TV screen in the rec room, but he trusted Dean Winchester. God help him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean had seriously hulked out. The last clear thing he remembered was hearing Cas make a sort of whimper, and then the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. After that, he saw red. It was a swirl of emotion, mostly rage with flecks of concern. Somebody had hurt Cas, his Cas. Castiel who was probably more than able of taking care of himself, but Dean wouldn't let that happen. Dean was definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was loyal as loyal could be and more protective than a mother bear.

After he had barely assessed the situation, he was only vaguely aware of his flying punches and shouting of obscenities and threats. It wasn't until he felt the gentle hand on his shoulder did he snap out of it. When he met Cas' gaze, he was quite frankly, amazed. Cas didn't look freaked out in the slightest. He just looked concerned, for Dean. Not the man that Dean had beaten to a pulp on the floor.

Somehow, against all odds, the guards managed to gain control of the fight. The prisoners were shackled with zip ties and whatever cuffs the guards had on hand. Two by two, they were brought back to their cells, the most serious offenders to solitary, and the rest to the infirmary. Dean was pleased to see the Crip that he had beat up wheeled off to the hospital wing.

The walk back to the cell was tense, the air was buzzing with unsaid words that definitely could not be shared when escorted by the guards. Castiel's shoulders were stiff, and he resolutely stared ahead, not giving Dean so much as a side glance. He was 95% positive that Cas was going to give him a dressing down about how he didn't need Dean's protection. The very vocal 5% told him that Cas was crazy turned on and about the jump his bones. He told that voice to can it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Cas clenched his hands into fists in an attempt to steady himself. He just needed to make it into the cells. Lights out had come early tonight, a punishment for the riot, as soon as the guards were around the corner he would be able to take action. The attraction he had been nursing for Dean for the better part of a month kicked into overdrive after the riot. It was like the flood gates had been opened. If the flood gates were Castiel's self-imposed celibacy and the flood was the fact that Castiel was letting his downstairs brain take the reins for the night. He hoped he would at least live long enough to regret it.

The door to the cell closed with a clang, leaving the two men alone in the cell with the adrenaline from the riot still coursing through their veins.

"Cas, take off your shirt."

Castiel's eyes became as wide as saucers. "W-what?" He sputtered.

"Take off your shirt." Dean grumbled. "We need to make sure that that asshole didn't seriously hurt you."

He nodded mutely, and made fast work of the buttons on the top portion of his jumpsuit. Castiel reminded himself to play it cool. Dean was showing a natural concern for his friend, he wasn't looking for a flimsy excuse to feel Castiel up. Castiel gestured to his undershirt and Dean nodded in silent affirmation. He quickly shed the layer. It was dark in the cell, only a few beams of moonlight made their way into the room, but Cas could have sworn he saw a flush on Dean's neck.

Stepping behind Castiel, Dean wrapped his arms around the man, fingers dancing over the ribs searching for damage.

"Tell me if I hit anything, Cas. Cracked ribs are a bitch." Dean's warm breath tickled his ear, and Castiel shivered involuntarily. Apparently Dean was on a mission to make this as difficult as possible for Cas. Not trusting himself to speak, Castiel nodded slightly and hummed in agreement. He was sure nothing was broken and there were no complications, but if it kept Dean closer for that much longer he wasn't going to voice his opinions.

Dean was thorough. His calloused fingers went antagonizingly slow over Castiel's ribs and chest, applying slight pressure to gauge Castiel's reaction. Cas was in a bad state. His breathing was becoming more and more erratic and he was certain that his face was roughly the same color as a tomato. The breathing he hoped could be attributed to the riot and nerves, and not the arousal that was curling in his stomach and in danger of making its way further south.

Castiel honestly couldn't tell you how happened, whether Dean pulled him closer or he unconsciously pressed back into the warmth of Dean's chest. What he could tell you was that he found himself flush with Dean's front and there was something decidedly not platonic pressing at his lower back.

His breath caught in his throat and Dean chuckled, sending reverberations through Castiel's body. This could not be happening. Was it a fever dream? Maybe he had hit the floor a little harder than he had previously thought. Or maybe he had died, and this was heaven. Although, if it was heaven, he'd have to have a word with his subconscious about romantic settings and a prison cell not being one. Dean's hips started moving and Castiel's brain went offline for a moment. He could already feel the fabric below his waist getting tighter and tighter.

He managed to get his act together long enough to string a sentence together. "Mr. Winchester, you're trying to seduce me." Castiel paused, fear grappling his system. "Aren't you?"

Dean laughed again. "Cas, I've been trying to seduce you ever since I first saw your stupid too blue eyes." As if to prove his statement, Dean's lips made their way to Castiel's neck. He didn't suck at the skin, both men knowing that if Castiel showed up with hickeys it would be open season on the both of them. Rather he placed gentle kisses on the slightly sunburnt skin and his hands slid down towards Castiel's hips.

The two rocked gently until Castiel couldn't stand it any longer, he needed direct contact and he needed it immediately. Twisting around, Cas gently pushed Dean backwards until his back was flush with the cell's cement wall.

"Whoa boy." Dean whispered smiling, his white teeth shining in the moonlight.

"You're such a tease." Castiel complained, peppering Dean's lips with chaste kisses between words. "You've been planning this." He accused. "The story in the cafeteria, the incessant working out, the casual shirtlessness around the cell." Castiel listed. Dean just grinned.

"Guilty."

Tired of the talking, Castiel decided to shut Dean up with more kisses and some aggressive rutting. If Dean was surprised by Castiel's forward actions, he quickly got with the program and responded. After that there was little communication besides Castiel's breathy moans and Dean's occasional grunt. Even though Cas had never been too much of a screamer, even he felt the need to keep it down. But, he had to admit there was something to be said for the need to be quiet.

Too soon Castiel found himself on the brink of orgasm, and judging by Dean's off tempo thrusts, he wasn't the only one. Dean's lips crashed down on Castiel's mouth, fighting for dominance and sent Castiel over the edge. Castiel figured he should have been more embarrassed over coming in his pants like a teenager who just discovered dry humping, but considering the fact that Dean soon followed suit quelled any of his concerns.

"Tomorrow." Castiel said simply.

"Tomorrow what, Cas?" Dean asked sleepily, the post-orgasm fatigue hitting him quickly.

"Tomorrow I'll tell you why I'm in Folsom."

"Look forward to it Cas."


	8. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I quickly became disillusioned with my heteronormative past, fueled by my recent realization that I had no interest in the opposite sex. Like many college students, I turned to drugs and alcohol but found that they weren't giving me the inspiration and purpose that I desired. And then I met Meg."

If Dean didn't know better he would have thought that the night before had been a dream. But he did know better, mostly thanks to a very crusty pair of coveralls balled up in the corner. Apparently spunk showed up like a bastard on the prison suits. Figured. Dean woke up too early as usual; the sun had just started to peek over the tall redwoods off in the distance, illuminating the cell in the soft morning light. Cas was snoring peacefully, sleeping like the dead thanks to their pretty rigorous activities last night. A smile snuck its way across Dean's face. Last night had been real, and it was amazing. A little short, rushed and uncomfortable towards the end, but definitely worth it. Especially since Dean was finally going to get the 411 on Cas' imprisonment.

Only twenty minutes later, Cas woke up rubbing his eyes blearily with the back of his hand. Dean tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his grin. It was like Christmas morning.

"How long have you been up?"

"I dunno. What time is it now?"

Castiel checked his digital watch. Weird, he struck Dean as an old school watch kind of guy. "It's 7:23, Dean."

Dean scratched his stubble. "An hour and a half. Just before six."

"Freak." Cas grumbled, eyeing the bed, tempted to return to the mattress. "I suppose you're waiting to hear my story."

"Yeah, no shit. You're just lucky you're exceptionally good with those hips." Dean waggled his eyebrows. "You pretty much rerouted all my wires last night." Dean was pleased to see Cas color slightly. "Or else I would have been on your ass like white on rice."

"I can't say I object to that scenario." Cas replied mildly.

"Stop trying to distract me. God, and you thought that I was the tease."

"Alright." Cas sighed, sitting up on the bed and swinging his legs over the edge. "Come here, Dean." He patted the mattress next to him. Dean obeyed, but not before bringing his own blanket over. The nights and mornings were getting colder; winter was on its way.

"I think it goes without saying, that it would be much appreciated if you did not spread the news around the prison." Cas started, watching the wall opposite. "I do not mind if you discuss it with Sam, but please refrain from telling the fellow prisoners. I-I'm not sure how well it would be received."

Dean's brow furrowed. Cas was making this out to be really serious. Which, granted, they were in a maximum security prison; it was pretty likely that Cas wasn't in Folsom for shoplifting.

"Read ya loud and clear." Dean agreed.

Cas nodded firmly. It was clearly taking a lot out of the guy, and the better part of Dean wanted to tell Cas to forget it. But the more flawed and infinitely larger part of Dean wanted to know why Cas was in the slammer.

"The first thing you should know is that I had a very average upbringing. I had no history of abuse, neglect, sociopathic tendencies or brainwashing." This intro was doing nothing to soothe Dean's nerves. "By all accounts my parents were, are, good people. Same with our friends, neighbors, my teachers. None of them are to blame for my actions." The speech sounded slightly rehearsed, and Dean wondered how many times Cas had repeated it in the past. How many times the lawyers and cops made him run through it over and over looking for discrepancies.

"Until I attended college at USC-"

"No way!" Dean interrupted. "I didn't know you were a Trojan!" Castiel looked slightly surprised at the outburst. He nodded slightly.

"Yes, I attended USC immediately after graduating high school; I was even awarded a scholarship." Cas smiled softly, clearly still proud of that accomplishment. "Although I have lived in California my entire life, going to school in Los Angeles proved to be a shock to my system." Dean grimaced in sympathy; L.A. could turn any sane man crazy. The town was full of lunatics and social climbers. "I quickly became disillusioned with my heteronormative past, fueled by my recent realization that I had no interest in the opposite sex. Like many college students, I turned to drugs and alcohol but found that they weren't giving me the inspiration and purpose that I desired. And then I met Meg."

Dean swallowed. There was not a story in the world that ended up well after a lost and impressionable guy met a bad girl. To be fair, Dean didn't know for sure that Meg was a bad person. But he had a feeling that if she had set Castiel on the straight and narrow, he wouldn't be brushing thighs with him at the moment.

"Meg was different than anybody I had ever met before." Dean figured that 'different' was code for 'bat shit insane'. "She spoke more surely of revolution than anybody I had ever met. Meg was committed to 'shaking things up', as she called it. Soon after I had met her in my Philosophy of Modern America course, she introduced to me to her friends. I would later find out that I had met the founding members of the Morning Star's Coven."

He stifled a groan, barely. The Morning Star's Coven was bad news bears. As far as cults go, they weren't particularly big, but for what they lacked in size they more than made up for in tenacity. Dean was by no means an expert on their freak ways, but he knew that one of their core beliefs was that the end of days was fast approaching and it was their duty to choose who would make it into the second phase of human life. There were lots of disappearances that had been tied to the group, but none of the charges had stuck, leaving them scot free.

"Judging by your face, I can tell you are familiar with them." His eyes flickered over to Dean's face before returning to the wall. "After a couple of months I became fairly involved in the organization, still not fully realizing to what extent they were willing to go to in order to 'bring judgment'." Castiel sighed and paused, collecting his thoughts. "I ended up dropping out of school, telling my parents that I had found my direction and had devoted my life to a cause." He smiled ruefully. "You have no idea how much I wish that they didn't trust my decision and forced me to stay at USC. Anyways, at this point I had been steadily climbing through the ranks of the group, and soon I was chosen to take place in my first judgment."

Dean sucked in an involuntary gasp of air. This was seriously fucked up. He was now kind of wishing that Cas would stop, he didn't know if he wanted to hear this. But the guy was clearly on a roll and not able to internalize it any longer.

"When they first mentioned it to me, I immediately agreed. I mistakenly thought that it was more of a symbolic gesture, that I would perform an incantation and damn a third of the earth to damnation. It wasn't until they brought me to an abandoned warehouse with a can of gasoline and a lighter, did I realize that they were actually more literal than I had previously thought. I knew that arson was wrong, but we were in the middle of nowhere and the fellow Morning Stars assured me that they owned the land so they were the only ones who were getting hurt in the deal. Of course, I should have realized that they were lying. It wasn't until I had dropped the lighter into the puddle of gasoline did they tell me the second half of the ritual. They had chosen somebody who was fit to be judged in their eyes, and they had been tied up unconscious on the floor of the warehouse."

Dean felt sick. This was Cas. Quiet, sarcastic, mild-mannered, Castiel. Not an arsonist, not a murderer of innocents.

"Who was it?" He managed to croak out.

"Meg." Castiel answered. "She angered the higher-ups, and they decided that her fate lay in my unknowing hands. "

He let it soak in; it was a lot to process. "What happened after that?"

"I turned myself in. I was tempted to end my own life, but I wanted to bring justice to Meg's senseless death and help the authorities tear apart the Coven. However, the authorities unfortunately could not look past my crimes and were forced to try me for arson and manslaughter." Castiel sighed. "I shouldn't complain, my sentence was considerably lessened once I cooperated with the LAPD and spilled the secrets of the Morning Stars. And once I have my parole hearing, I will have a letter of recommendation from the police chief herself. Chief Mills was most understanding of my situation, but it was beyond even her control."

They were quiet for a while after that. Cas, tired out from the mostly one-sided conversation, and Dean simply processing all the new information. Dean knew he should feel angry; as far as he was concerned arsonists were the scum of the earth. But he couldn't bring himself to be upset at Castiel; the man was manipulated and lied to. Hardly a criminal mastermind. In fact, it was a miracle that he had lasted this long in jail. He clearly belonged on the other side of the tracks, literally. Despite the silence, Dean didn't move from Castiel's bed. They weren't quite touching, but Dean wasn't moving away. It wasn't until the other prisoners started to wake up did Dean talk.

"My mom was killed in a house fire, you know." He started, staring at his socks. "One of Alastair's men started it. Me and Sammy barely got out alive."

"I know." Cas whispered, sounding absolutely broken. "I understand if you wish to transfer, Dean."

"What?" Dean asked, confused. "No, Cas. I'm not going to transfer. You didn't let me finish." He grumbled. "The dick that burned my house didn't give a shit that everybody inside was completely innocent, he was just got off on it. A little firebug that wanted to ruin people's lives. But you, Cas. You're different. You weren't trying to hurt anybody." He explained. "You aren't the same breed as them. You're a good person."

And then completely against form, Castiel hugged Dean. Burying his face in Dean's neck, Cas squeezed tightly. He let out something that sounded like a 'thank you', but Dean couldn't be sure. Dean would have liked the hug to go on a lot longer, but Cas' hair was tickling his nose. "No problem, Cas. I told you before, I'm not that big of a douchebag." He said gruffly, awkwardly patting Castiel's back.

Castiel pulled back, frowning slightly. "Does this mean that you would also like to continue our-" He paused, waving his hand around in the air.

Dean rolled his eyes, happy for the mood change. "Yes, you big nerd. I'd definitely be down with getting a little thunder down under in the near future." When Cas blushed something fierce, Dean just laughed and slapped his back. They were going to be okay, he could feel it.

He'd be lying if he said he was 100% okay with Castiel's situation. It killed him to know that somebody had taken advantage of his Castiel and twisted him into something unrecognizable. Cas had lost his family and friends because of that goddamned cult and Dean would be a monkey's uncle if Cas lost Dean because of those jag weeds too.


	9. All of God's Children Ain't Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that stupid toothy grin only made an appearance on Dean's mug for two reasons, he had just played with a puppy or he had just gotten laid. Since Sam knew for a fact that there was no puppies for prisoners program at Folsom, he figured it was the second option. Which terrified him.

Sam had never had a strong relationship with his father. After about age eight he realized that there was at least a 50/50 chance that his dad wasn't going to be coming back from one of his 'hunts'. It didn't exactly foster a sharing and caring environment. Not to mention the nearly doglike devotion that his brother had for their father. It wasn't until Sam had left puberty in his dust did he see Dean actually stand up for himself. Even so, losing his father to death and his brother to prison in the span of a few months took its toll on Sam. And that's why he joined the support group.

It wasn't exactly grief counseling nor was it a group for family members of prisoners. The small group that met in the basement of the Lutheran church was united by one thing, how fucked up their lives were. One of the girls just came to terms with the fact that she had been sexually abused as a child, another man had outlived every single member of his family, including his children. They all had sob stories, lifetimes of guilt, frustration and denial on their shoulders. And so they worked together to help alleviate the pain. Only one of them was a licensed psychiatrist, but they were all encouraged to share their opinions and methods of coping. As long as they were healthy exercises.

And that's where Sam met Jen. Jen was smart as a whip, had the driest sense of sense of humor out of anybody Sam had ever known, and was arguably one of the most beautiful women that he had met. Jen's parents were of different races, her mother was black and her father was white. When Jen's mother announced that she was pregnant, both sides of the family shunned them. And when her parents died in a car wreck when she was only two, she was placed into foster care. After sixteen years of bouncing around from one house to the next, Jen was free and she left her tumultuous childhood behind her and left for college on a full ride. Jen and Sam had bonded after they realized that neither of them had had a permanent address for most of their life.

It had taken Sam three sessions to work up the courage to ask Jen out on a coffee date. She had accepted and then punched Sam on the arm demanding to know why it had taken so long for him to 'nut up'.

All in all Sam's life was going pretty well. Which is why it could be forgiven that he didn't realize something was off with Dean right away. It wasn't that Sam thought that Dean was having trouble in Folsom or was on the brink of suicide, it was that he looked happy. Not just happy, ecstatic. And that stupid toothy grin only made an appearance on Dean's mug for two reasons, he had just played with a puppy or he had just gotten laid. Since Sam knew for a fact that there was no puppies for prisoners program at Folsom, he figured it was the second option. Which terrified him.

Dean was nattering on about he had 'totally kicked the Crips asses in softball', when Sam figured it out. Granted, it had taken him a little while to connect the dots, but he got there. Dean was boning his cellmate. Which was a Not Good situation. Capitals necessary. Sam needed to make it clear that this wasn't a dude on dude problem. It was a problem in the sense that there was no good outcome of this situation. He distinctly remembered Dean telling him that Castiel was up for parole, and if Cas was half as good as Dean said he was, it was a sure thing that he'd be granted parole. Sam did not want to think about what Dean would be like if Castiel was released. From the few long term relationships Sam had seen his older brother in he had been able to discern that Dean went from about zero to sixty in terms of emotional attachment and it wouldn't be long until Dean needed Cas as much as he needed oxygen.

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You'd have to be blind to miss what was going on between Castiel and that Winchester boy. Of course, Crowley reminded himself, most of the inmates here couldn't see beyond their own greasy noses. He was made of a different stock, secrets and deception were his trade and business was booming. Although he wasn't sure how he would play the information quite yet, Crowley was assured that regardless of the terms, it would end up being quite lucrative for him. Word had it that Castiel hadn't smoked a single one of his cigarettes since entering the clink, a veritable fortune at Folsom, and Crowley was itching to get his hands on it.

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Since the night of the riot, Dean and Castiel had fallen into a bit of a routine. Dean, under some mistaken impression that he needed to rile up Castiel, would do everything in his power to make his cellmate hot and bothered by lights out. At which point, Castiel would do everything in his power to make Dean lose basic cognitive skills and his grasp on the English language. In short, they were blowing each other like horny teenagers. Also like teenagers doing the dirty in the bedroom down the hall from their parents, Dean and Cas were forced to keep it silent and quick. Essentially they were doing sparknotes style banging. And due to a distressing lack of lube, they were pretty restricted in their activities. Cas had suggested something called 'dry style' that made Dean balk and refrain from so much as kissing Cas for the rest of the night.

More than anything, Dean just wanted to lay Cas out and find all the spots on his body that made his breath hitch. But, their quick gropes in the night didn't allow for that sort of sentiment or freedom. And Dean thought that it might just be the worst part about being locked up.

And so, Dean became a little more serious. And a Dean with a plan was a Dean Winchester to be reckoned with. He was pretty sure even Sammy hadn't been able to see past his happy veneer of smiles and rainbows. What he did make sure Sam knew was that Dean had his eye on a shiny new air pump for his basketball that had deflated. And maybe a new bladder too if Sam was feeling generous. And a roll of duct tape, why not? A man could always use a roll of duct tape. The plan was rolling around in his head, gaining momentum and speeding closer to the date of Cas' parole hearing.

Days melted into weeks, and soon the parole hearing was right around the corner. Cas was getting antsy, Dean could tell, and adamantly refused to talk about it. Dean had never thought that he'd be the most emotionally available person in a relationship, but Cas truly took the cake in terms of constipated feeling talk. Every time Dean so much as broached the subject of Cas leaving soon, Cas got a sort of distressed look on his face and was able to stutter out 'Dean, no.' in a strangled voice and then shut off entirely. By no means was Dean the touchy-feely type of guy, but even he had to admit that there was a very real possibility that he would never see Cas again. And he had to talk to him about it. And being the conniving asshole that he was, he waited until after he had given Castiel the blowjob of the century to talk about it.

"Cas?"

"Mhmm?" Cas hummed from his mattress, hair stuck out in every direction.

"You know I care about you right?"

"Yes, Dean."

"This is the part where you say you like me too."

Cas sighed, the long suffering sigh of someone forced to deal with Dean Winchester for prolonged periods of time. "I like you too, Dean."

"Like me, like me?"

Dean could practically hear him roll his eyes from across the room. "Yes, Dean. Like you like you. I'm sorry my note from Susie didn't make it to you but Mrs. Roberts confiscated it at snack time."

"Asshole."

His only response was a chuckle. It apparently didn't matter if Dean didn't think Cas was funny, he clearly found himself hilarious.

"Alright, chuckles. I'm gonna be serious here for a split second, so stay with me." Dean swung his legs around the bed so they dangled over the edge. He tried to peer into the darkness but was only rewarded with a vague outline of Cas' body. "Okay, what I've been trying to tell you over the past couple of weeks and what you've been too stubborn to listen to, is that I'm serious about this." He gestured between them. "I'm in for the long haul, Cas."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, I know." Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "It's definitely not ideal." He smiled ruefully. "It's actually fucking tragic, but we can't change the cards we were dealt. What I'm trying to say, is that if you make parole in two weeks, I'm gonna make it work."

Silence. Just dead air. Before Dean could stop himself, he started rambling. "I have a plan though, Cas. Don't even worry, I need to talk to Crowley about a few things and save up my goods for a coupla months, but I should be good after that."

"Dean."

"Let me finish, Cas. It's gonna be risky as hell, but I know I can do it. The only reason I was caught the first time was because I was half dead and was run over by a goddamn Prius." He groaned, still humiliated by the accident. "What I'm trying to say is, if you want me, you've got me for good."

For such a nerdy little guy, Cas was pretty fast on his feet. Combined with the pitch darkness of the cell, Dean only had Cas' footsteps to tell him that he was about to experience a head on collision. Although, for all the times people had run into him, Dean had to admit that this was the most pleasant by far. Mostly because this one included considerably more kisses.

Apparently Dean's confessional had earned him a second round for the night and a moan from Castiel that probably shook the very foundations of Folsom. So Dean considered it a win.


	10. Cool Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't ask for details, it was unprofessional. And sloppy. All he needed were the times, items and most importantly, the fee.

Cas was running on autopilot. His parole hearing was in less than 48 hours and if everything did not go as planned, they'd be, as Dean said, up shit creek with a turd for a paddle. Like most large scale operations, the slightest mishap could mean disaster. Or even death. Prison guards were not known for their especially forgiving ways.

He aimed for peace, but it was more of a complete detachment from the world around him. Dean was scurrying across the prison during rec times getting things organized, and Cas was busy practicing his speech to the parole board. He knew there was nothing the board that the board could find wrong with his behavioral history in Folsom, his record was spotless. He just had to prove to the board that being locked up at fundamentally changed him, and he wasn't going to go burning down houses anymore. Which of course, was a moot case because Cas hadn't really burned down that warehouse because he was some sort of firebug in the first place.

During the day, both he and Dean were lost inside their own heads, fine-tuning their plans that they had been subconsciously been forming for months. If Castiel was honest with himself, he had been planning for them since their first night together. But it wasn't until recently that he had entertained the plans of having any basis in reality. At night, they lay as close as their slim prison issued cots would allow, until just before day break when the prison guards started their morning rounds. Only then did Castiel's mind run blank with only thoughts of happiness and fulfillment. On his darker nights, he wept bitter tears while Dean slept unaware.

He didn't know what he'd do if he lost Dean. It seemed so intensely unfair that the one time Castiel found somebody he cared with, somebody he'd be willing to spend his entire life with, it was in prison. And so in the days leading up to Castiel's trial, he was quiet and contemplative, returning to the bookish man he had been before Dean Winchester had barreled into his life. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything and only offered comfort in quick touches in public and long embraces in the cloak of night.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley was a happy man. He was always happy when he made deals with desperate men, because desperate men were always willing to pay his prices. That was what the backbone of his business was based on. Men in prison were notoriously anxious, add a half-baked plan in the mix and it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Take for example, Dean Winchester, who was undoubtedly planning something big. Considering the payment that he gave Crowley, it couldn't be anything less than murder. But, the price was right so Crowley was willing to do everything in his power to ensure that Dean's plan went smoothly. He didn't ask for details, it was unprofessional. And sloppy. All he needed were the times, items and most importantly, the fee.

The first part of what Dean had asked for Crowley had been fairly run of the mill. He needed a file.

"Fairly typical, eh Winchester?" Crowley had asked, smirking. "Those guards will be outside your cell faster than you can whimper your boyfriend's name."

"Who said it was for the door?" Dean muttered, before staring Crowley down. "And that brings me to the second part of our agreement."

Crowley would collect his payment in thirds. One third upfront, one after Dean received the file and the third and final installment would be buried in the rec yard, underneath the bleachers. He was turning quite the profit on this little deal, and whatever was good for business was good for Crowley.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean was an absolute wreck. He always got this way before a big mission. He had even picked up the unfortunate habit from youth, nail biting. It had to be bad because even Cas commented on it, and for whatever reason the guy thought that everything Dean did was adorable. Even his snoring, which for the record, sounded like a cat being strangled. Sam had recorded it once after Dean had been in denial. It wasn't pretty.

He honestly couldn't help it though; the plan was high risk high reward. If it was good, he'd be set for life, out of the clutches of the prison guards and the government. If something went wrong, well, he'd rather not think about it. Dean had been shot at before, and it was not a fun time.

A few days after Sam's visit the week before, Dean's items had arrived in the prison store for him. Sam had been as good as his word and delivered on the goods and with some extras. Waiting on his bed one day after rec hour, were three little packages that could possibly be the most important three items that Dean would ever touch.

So at night, after lights off but before he wandered into Castiel's cot, he worked on the apparatus. It wasn't pretty or durable but it would work for what Dean needed. It was just every other part of the plan that could go bottoms up at any moment. He had covered all his bases, and all he had to do was wait.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Novak, please sit down." The president of the parole board gestured to a metal folding chair in front of the table which sat all five members of the board. His name plate read 'Bradley Chan'. He was an older Asian man with thinning grey hair and sharp black eyes. Castiel was uncomfortably reminded of a shark. "You are here to hear the results of your parole for your crime of…?" He trailed off, looking up to Castiel through his bifocals.

"Arson and manslaughter, sir." Castiel answered dutifully, sitting straight up in his chair.

"And what were the terms of your sentencing?"

"Four to nine years, with the first eligibility of parole at the start of my fourth year."

"Good, good." Chan made a note in his folder. "And you've been keeping up with all your parole work, I assume? You have the plans all sorted if you'll be granted parole today?"

Castiel nodded briskly. "Yes, of course. I have an entry level job waiting for me at a paper mill outside of Sacramento and a pre-approved by the prison apartment downtown."

"Excellent work, Mr. Novak. It is always good to see such ambition with our prisoners."

He allowed himself a terse smile. He needed this; he could play along for a half hour.

Chan flipped through a couple of papers in Castiel's folder and hummed to himself. "Your behavior has been exceptional over the past four years. No problems with the guards, fellow inmates, respectful of prison property and best of all, no gang affiliations."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, Mr. Novak, this is perhaps the most important question that I will ask you today so I want you to answer very carefully. Take all of the time that you need." Chan took a deep breath, obviously feeling very important. "If you could go back in time and take back the actions that led you to Folsom, would you?"

Castiel frowned, his lips pursed at the thought. It had been naïve to assume they wouldn't ask him if he regretted his actions. However, he did not come totally unprepared.

"I feel like that is a difficult question to answer, Mr. Chan," Castiel began slowly, searching for the right words, "for I do deeply regret that my actions resulted in the death of a bright and charismatic young woman." He paused, collecting strength. "However, I do believe that my time in Folsom has changed me for the better. It helped me realize that I was dealing with a cult and dangerous people, and it terrifies me to know what could have happened to me if I had allowed myself to go deeper within that organization. So, my answer is twofold. I will never forgive myself for allowing Meg Masters to die in that fire, but I believe that prison was the wakeup call that I needed to help turn my life around. And if I had the option to change my actions, I would only wish that Meg had been unscathed."

Castiel held his breath. That was it; he had no other chances until the next time they decided he could go up for parole again. If they didn't buy that, he was out of luck. Nervously, he met the eyes of the parole board, but they weren't looking at him.

Nodding to the prison guard, Chan said "Take Mr. Novak out to the hall while we deliberate, we won't be more than twenty minutes." And so, Cas was escorted out to the hallway with the cheap linoleum tiles and the flickering florescent lights. The lights were clearly older, and gave the hallway an eerie yellow glow. Castiel looked at his hands, they looked sickly and sallow under the light.

He unsuccessfully tried to keep his mind off of the board's decision while he waited. All he could think was what if he didn't get to Dean in time? What if something terrible happened and it was all for naught? Castiel thought bleakly that his freedom wouldn't be so free if it didn't have Dean in it. He would never be so drastic as to kill himself, it would be an insult, but his life would be noticeably darker without his cellmate.

Finally, the doorknob turned and one of the women from the board spoke the guard.

"Bring him back in, we've reached a decision."

Castiel stood in front of the table of the parole board, staring at the slip of paper in front of Chan. He couldn't read the words from this distance, but it didn't stop him from trying.

"Mr. Novak…Castiel." Chan started again, going for easy familiarity but missing his mark. Castiel hated him for it. "We've reviewed your case and there was a unanimous decision. Without a shadow of a doubt we have decided that you have reformed and are more than capable of starting your life over outside of Folsom." Chan grabbed a rubber stamp and pressed it onto the paper. "Congratulations, Castiel. You're a free man."

Unbidden tears sprung to Castiel's eyes, but he was hardly aware of them. He was free, totally and completely. Well more or less with some stipulations that he had no intentions of following. Cas figured that he would have felt badly about so clearly duping the parole board, but he figured they made these kinds of mistakes all the time. After all, paroled prisoners were notorious reoffenders.

"T-Thank you." He choked out, the hand and ankle cuffs already feeling too tight. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

One of the men on the board who hadn't spoken before, smiled kindly up at Castiel. He had bright blond, almost white, hair. "You're welcome, Mr. Novak. Enjoy your life on the outside."

Chan handed Castiel the release papers. The guard swiftly took off his shackles. Clutching the papers in his hand, he answered roughly. "I will."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean smirked into the darkness. Lights out had been forty-five minutes ago and already the screams had died down and the snores had started. Castiel had never returned from his parole hearing, a guard had swung by the cell though and informed Dean that he would be meeting his new cellmate tomorrow. Dean resisted the urge to laugh in his face.

The file that Crowley had got for Dean worked wonders. It had taken far less time than Dean had expected to cut through the thick bars of the window between Dean and Castiel's old bed. The window was not large, probably three by two feet, but it was enough to work with.

Grabbing his makeshift tool, and saying one last goodbye to the cell, Dean disappeared into the night. If one listened very carefully, they probably could have heard a muffled splash coming from the old mill pond.

An owl hooted across the prison yard and the nightly train sounded its three short blasts, and Folsom was short one prisoner.


	11. I Walk the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Crowley had uncovered his third installment just three hours after Dean was declared missing, the word had already been spread. Squeal on Winchester and you'll get a dirty shiv in your lower intestines next time you hit the showers. The prisoners had remained tight lipped.

Sam's phone was ringing. He was supposed to meet Jen at the library in; he checked his watch, shit five minutes ago. He glanced at the caller ID; it was Jen probably wondering why he was late. Flipping open the phone, Sam pressed it to his ear and started his stream of excuses.

"Hey Jen, I'm so sorry I'm running late." He rushed. "I lost my shoe, I only have one shoe." Sam hit the floor, cheek flushed with the carpet, trying to look under the couch. He had no idea why his sneaker would be under the couch, but one time he had found it in his bathtub, so anything was possible.

"Don't worry about it, Sam." Jen's voice sounded odd, detached almost.

"No! It's not okay," He insisted, now checking the cabinets in the kitchen "this is the third time I've been late in the past week and a half."

Sam heard Jen take a deep breath. "Seriously, Sam. The least of your worries. Turn on the news and call me back." She hung up.

Sam's stomach sank like a stone. He was pretty sure there was only one reason why he would have to watch the news, and that was if his brother had somehow managed to fuck himself over even more. Sam switched on the small boxy TV set Dean had bought for him when he had left for school. The pretty daytime news reporter was outside, in front of a barbed wire fence, looking fairly flustered.

"Welcome back. We're here reporting live from Folsom Prison where officials have announced just hours ago, their arguably most famous prisoner has escaped." The camera zoomed past her left shoulder to get a closer shot of the prison in the background. "Not much information has been given about the escape of Dean Winchester, commonly known as the Johnny Cash Killer, which happened around midnight." She paused dramatically. "Experts say that Winchester most likely broke out through his cell by breaking the protective barrier on his window."

Sam's jaw dropped. This could not be happening.

"Since even the prisoners on the first floor face a drop of about ten feet, it is likely that Winchester used some sort of homemade rope, possibly made out of bed sheets to shimmy down with minimal injury. However, this is where it gets interesting. As you can clearly see, much of the prison backs up to the mill pond which is used to power a portion of the prison's electricity." She gestured to the murky water next to her, and sure enough, there were only a few feet of earth between the prison and the pond. "Clearly, Winchester had swum across the pond, most likely using some sort of homemade snorkel to avoid detection."

The balls, the pump, the duct tape. The cell phone fell out of Sam's hand and in between his couch cushions. He had fallen right into Dean's plan. Sam had literally bought the tools necessary for his escape. Sam really hoped that Dean was at least smart enough to take that thing with him, so Sam wouldn't be accused of aiding and abetting. As it was, Sam was going to be under close surveillance for the next few weeks, to make sure that he wasn't harboring his brother. But the pretty blond lady on TV was still reporting, so Sam shook his worries away and paid attention.

"As far as his escape past that went, it is all speculation. Around Folsom is dense forest, easy to disappear in." She gestured to the woods. "It is also quite close to the interstate; Winchester could have possibly hitchhiked or stolen a car from a nearby rest stop." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, "But this reporter thinks he might have jumped on a cargo train, headed due South. Regardless of his method of escape, Winchester is considered to be unarmed but extremely dangerous. He is highly trained in several forms of defense and can be known to have a violent temper. The image on your screen now is the last photo taken of Winchester, shortly after his incarceration at Folsom. Any tips or eye witnesses can call the number at the bottom of the screen or 911." The news snapped back to the weekend weather forecast.

Sam was actually speechless.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"No, sir."

"Nope, haven't heard a peep out of Winchester since he got locked up."

"Nuh-uh. You got me."

"Of course I don't know how Mr. Winchester escaped, Officer Kelley." Crowley smirked. Fucking pigs. They weren't going to get a single clue from any of the dunderheads in here. Dean had made sure of that before the man had jumped.

That is why Crowley's respect for the man had grown exponentially after Dean had divulged his plan. Escape plans were a dime a dozen, but an exit strategy took intelligence. Experience. Balls. All of which Dean had in spades. Any Joe off the street could find a way to escape Folsom eventually, but practically none of them would be able to cover their tracks. Most would just sprint off during the rec hour and hope for the best. After Crowley had uncovered his third installment just three hours after Dean was declared missing, the word had already been spread. Squeal on Winchester and you'll get a dirty shiv in your lower intestines next time you hit the showers. The prisoners had remained tight lipped.

As the week dragged on, and Winchester still hadn't been found, the cops and detectives had become increasingly frustrated with the lack of leads.

"Somebody had to have heard something." Officer Kelley reasoned, tapping his pencil on the small notebook gripped in his hand.

"Folsom's a big prison, sir." Crowley drawled in return, somehow making 'sir' sound like an insult. "And that Winchester is a slippery fellow. I heard the devil himself couldn't catch him."

Kelley pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed were rumors going around that Winchester possessed some sort of superhuman abilities. That would not help his case at all. All he was trying to do was catch a felon. He hated the prison. Next time the call came in; he was shutting off his radio and pleading ignorance to the captain.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Crowley." Officer Kelley said, exasperated with the whole situation. All he wanted to do was go home, put in a frozen pizza and watch trashy reality TV. Was that too much to ask?

"Have a nice day, Officer." Crowley grinned silkily and fingered a crisp cigarette in his pocket. His trade was secrets. And business was booming.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean was almost disappointed with the security at Folsom. It wasn't anything like the movies. There weren't any dogs nipping at his heels, no bullets whizzing by his ears. It was quiet and slow going. His clothes were soaked through, and the chilly night air was giving him no favors. Whenever he first got the chance, Dean had to ditch the suit. He didn't care if he pranced around in a dress, it would garner him less attention than a bright orange jumpsuit.

It didn't take long to find the train tracks, and judging by the way that the pebbles were jumping around his feet, the train wasn't far. Dean wasn't sure if the train went east, south, north or west, but that was hardly the point. He could settle down and live anonymously anywhere, he just had to get away. The more distance he put between him and the prison walls the better.

Of course his first knee-jerk reaction was to go to Sam's. But he squashed it. He wasn't dragging Sammy down with him; he was building a good honest life for himself. He didn't need Dean fucking that up. It wasn't that he thought Sam would turn him away; he knew he would take him in a heartbeat, but he wasn't going to give his brother the option. Same with Cas, consent was muddled and unclear within the confines of prison and Dean wasn't going to hold Cas to some halfhearted promise on a post-orgasmic high. Dean had standards, goddamit, and it was about time that he enacted them.

So shivering in the pitch darkness, Dean really hoped that he still knew how to hobo jump a train. Because it would be really embarrassing if he had made it this far only to be stopped by a train. But the fates smiled upon him apparently for the first time in his life, because either the train was slow or Dean had ninja skills (he preferred to think the latter) but he was able to swing on with ease. And then spent the next four hours ignoring the indignant squawks of the chickens that he had party crashed. After about twenty minutes they would fall asleep, and then one would wake up and the whole cycle would start over again.

When he felt the train slowing down, he took a quick look outside and tumbled out. He was further south that was for sure. The lush forests of northern California had given way to desert and scrub, and the sun was just about to rise over the horizon. He followed the tracks, careful to stay in the little cover that the desert provided. He had to keep moving, he didn't want to get caught, or worse, almost die in the desert again.

Luck was on his side again, because a larger cargo train barreled down the tracks, Spanish graffiti scrawled on the sides. Jumping on, Dean settled into an empty car, locking the sliding door behind him and falling asleep quickly to the rhythm of the train.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks. Two long weeks of working at the paper mill. Ten ungodly days of being in charge of 'quality control' of the thousands of reams of white cardstock that were produced in the mill. His coworkers were dull and lifeless; obviously all signs of vitality had been stripped after a few years of working in the unbelievably numbing plant. It would be better if he had something to look forward to, but the highlight of Cas' day was checking the mail box. Followed quickly by bitter disappointment when he only received another bill or coupon book.

Dean had told him it might take a while; Cas had thought he meant a couple of days. And he knew for a fact that Dean hadn't been found, it would have been everywhere on the news. No, Dean was still running but avoiding Castiel. It hurt.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had managed to sneak across the border, and after losing some weight and growing a beard, Dean was nearly unrecognizable on first glance. He made his way slowly south, further and further from the border, from the control of the US government. Some time was spent in the central of the country, in the large cities, hoping to blend into the crowds and simply melting into the background and buzz of the city. But there were too many eyes, and not enough allies. So Dean turned west, towards the ocean.

The towns became more and more spread out, until they were just shacks connected by dusty dirt roads. Hitchhiking was encouraged, the farmers were happy to pick up the American with the easy smile and stilted Spanish.

Soon he hit the Pacific, as beautiful as ever. White sand beaches, cerulean blue seas and tropical temperatures, Dean couldn't think of anything better. So that's where he stayed. Walking along the beaches, sometimes sleeping on the sand, sometimes finding a floor. He worked as best he could. Not usually for pesos. Usually for fish. One time for sunglasses.

"Necesita una casa, gringo." One of the fishermen told Dean after he plucked a piece of seaweed out of Dean's hair. It had been another night on the beach.

"Sí, lo sé." Dean responded, grinning. "Pero la playa es tan cómoda."

The man just laughed and clapped Dean on the back. "Me gustas, gringo. Te voy a ayudar."

And that's how Dean became a homeowner. Well, home was a strong term. That's how Dean was allowed to live in the shack missing half a roof and a stray cat. The cat was a mangy thing, missing an eye and patches of fur. He named it Bobby, it seemed appropriate. Even when it became apparent that Bobby was apparently a she.

So Dean worked through the weeks, for supplies, food and very few pesos. Enough to hitch a ride to the city and buy two postcards. One was exceedingly generic, a picture of the beach with a palm tree that read 'Wish You Were Here' and for unknown reasons some maracas were photoshopped onto the horizon. The other had a shirtless man in a speedo flexing knee deep in the ocean. On the back of both of them, he wrote two numbers.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam was amazingly hungover. Apparently Jen could drink like a champ, because he's pretty sure he'd fallen asleep on the bar and she was still ordering shots. She was the best. It took him three hours to build up the courage to walk down to the mailbox. Battling a heaving stomach the whole way.

When he opened the small box he was immediately assaulted by a neon green thong and a very muscular man flexing. Dean was safe.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Castiel was contemplating murder. Maybe he would spill the blood all over the paper in the factory. That would teach them. He wasn't sure what exactly it would teach them, but there was a lesson in there somewhere. He was just too exhausted to figure it out.

It wasn't just the banality of his entry level job; it was that he still hadn't heard from Dean. It had been close to two months. And each day, Cas lost a little bit more hope. And started to believe that maybe this was just a con that Dean had pulled. The fact that there was no actual reason why Dean would do this made no difference when he went to bed alone every night.

And then one day, it all changed. Waiting in his mailbox was an unassuming little postcard. Cas waited for his last paycheck, cashed it like usual, made a picnic lunch and locked his front door behind him for the last time. Dean was safe. Dean wanted Cas. The sun shone for the first time in what felt like years.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean had found some old rope on the docks that the men had let him keep. Between two trees next to his house, he had made a makeshift hammock. That's where he spent his days after he fixed the house, made some semblance of a meal and worked.

He heard Juan talking further down the beach, maybe a mile away, but tried to ignore it. Last time he had nodded enthusiastically to Juan's rapid-fire Spanish, he had unwittingly agreed to help the man retile his roof. So Dean feigned sleep. And then quickly actually fell asleep.

If he had stayed awake, he would have heard the quiet footsteps approaching and then felt the cool shadow wash over him. But he hadn't, so he didn't. What he did feel however, was being unceremoniously dumped on the ground.

"¿Qué demonios?" He demanded, spitting out a mouthful of sand. Looking up at the bright afternoon sky, Dean saw a familiar silhouette. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Dean angled his head in an attempt to get a better view.

"Cas?" Dean asked uncertainly, his voice cracking slightly. Later, Dean would blame the dryness on his throat on the sand.

"You son of a bitch." Was his only answer before he was pushed back on the ground again, this time forced down by the entire weight of a very welcome body. Before Dean could respond, he was silenced with harsh kisses with lots of teeth clashing and dry cracked lips. But it was fine, and perfect.

"I missed you so fucking much, Cas." Dean whispered between kisses. "You have no idea how many times I wanted to come back and risk it. Just to see you."

"Shut up." Cas demanded, placing his hands on the ground on either side of Dean's head. "You have no idea what you put me through." His eyes blazed. If Dean was completely honest, he was a very confused mixed of turned on and terrified. He had the distinct feeling that Cas might try to cut off his dick. "Do you know how often I thought about you?" He questioned. "At night? When I was all alone? What I did?" The scared part was leaving rapidly if the interested twitch from Dean's Calvin Klein's were any indication.

And then Cas' smile turned absolutely feral. "Do you have any idea how much lube I bought between here and California?"

Dean's jaw went slack.

"We have some time to make up for, Mr. Winchester."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

For decades, the young children would run along the beach hoping to catch a glimpse of the gringos who lived in the small cabin by the sea. And sometimes the tall man that visited them with his wife. They knew the tall man was a rich American and if he saw them he would give them candy. Sometimes he would try to speak to them in broken Spanish and it was funny.

Their parents told them that the nice men, Dean and Cas-t-elle were not to be bothered because Castiel had magical powers and could make lightning crack out of a cloudless sky. This of course, only encouraged their antics.

But the men, no matter how many interruptions from the kids, always seemed happy and content and above all, free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that Spanish was taken directly from Google Translate, so forgive any errors or weird sentence structure. Also, for all of you not familiar with white racial slurs/terms, 'gringo' is basically a derogatory term for a white person or American. But obviously it's used here in a more affectionate way.


End file.
